


Lessons They Never Taught Me In School

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>School represents a place for people to gather and share information and ideas.  For some people, they share even more.  But what could the IT guy have in common with a Biology professor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons They Never Taught Me In School

Title: Lessons They Never Taught Me In School

Authors: Red_921 (darkredbeloved@gmail.com) and Lady Saddlebred (celapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: when finished to MA, please!

Category: Qui/Obi, Angst, Alternate Reality, Drama

Rating: eventually NC-17

Warnings: first time writing graphic scenes…

Spoilers: none

Summary: School represents a place for people to gather and share information and ideas. For some people, they share even more. But what could the IT guy have in common with a Biology professor?

Feedback: PLEASE FEED THE BUNNIES!! On or off list is fine

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  


~*~*~*~

He pulled out another handful of wires and stared dully at them as they lay like dead snakes. No one seemed to understand the idea of “Efficiency Through Order,” thus leaving Ben to clean up the literal and figurative messes others caused. He had been at this job for ten years now without so much as a “good job” or even a “thanks for the help” after he had fished this whole university out of the pit it had created for itself before he got there.

 

If it hadn’t been for the benefits, Ben was sure he would have just quit and found a new job long ago. Stars knew he could get one practically anywhere, and this place was starting to look more and more like a dead end.

 

He had relocated to take the job at “The Academy” as it was known locally. The School for the Academically Gifted was, in Ben’s mind, nothing but a school for snobs. He himself had attended Brighton Plains, on the other side of the city. It had been near enough to his parents’ home that he had walked to school. Here, it was assumed you had both a car and an expensive apartment. That, plus the nearly triple tuition had meant Ben had no chance of getting in, even with his 4.0+ grade point average.

 

“Were you planning on fixing the problem physically or with your mind, Mr. Kensington?” The deep voice of the Dean of Students, Mark Winters, cut through any line of thought Ben had had. He looked up, wires still in hand, to see the dark man standing over him. Winters never looked happy, but somehow he looked even less so now, with Ben elbow-deep in one of his walls.

 

“Just trying to figure out the best way to approach the problem. A little time now could save money and time later.” Ben hoped that was enough to cover for his lapse in attention to the snakes’ den in the wall.

 

“Very well. We will need this classroom in a week for midterms, so make sure that time *is* saved.” With that, the tall man turned and walked away.

 

One would never have guessed from that exchange that the Dean was in fact beloved by the students. He was honored every year with a cabaret-style show mocking all the other professors, but paying homage to him. Not that Ben was ever invited to such events. He was only ever there to deal with the tech problems that were sure to arise halfway through the show.

 

A gaggle of giggling coeds stopped at the corner of the hall, whispering and pointing in Ben’s direction. One would think with all the nubile young flesh on campus that he wouldn’t hesitate to take full advantage of the innocent young things, but something about children with too much money and way too high an opinion of themselves did not for good romance make. That was all he was looking for: romance. For all his technological expertise, Ben still dreamed of finding romance. Someday.

 

He glanced up as a pair of girls walked over and stopped inches from where he was kneeling on the floor.

 

“I was wondering, since you’re so good with all this computer stuff…” The dark-haired girl hesitated and looked at her friend, blushing. The other girl elbowed her and flashed her a look that clearly said, Get on with it already! “See, my parents kind of found all the test sites on my computer, so they know I’ve been… well, you know, cheating. They say if they catch me doing it again I lose the car *and* the phone.” She pouted prettily. “So, hey, could you kind of *hide* them for me?”

 

Ben stared at her, mouth agape. It took a second to regain any train of thought. “I don’t really *do* that kind of work…”

 

The very idea that he would help her *cheat* just so she could keep the car Daddy had probably given her at 16 and the fancy phone whose bill she didn’t even have to pay made Ben’s head throb. All the work he had had to do to stay a good student, and now this- this… *floozy* of a girl wanted him to help her *cheat?!?* If not for his innate sense of ethics, he would have cheerfully hacked her computer and programmed it to print in binary! He shrugged and gave her a small smile. “I guess you’ll just have to study harder, huh?”

 

This was clearly not the answer the girl was expecting, and she tossed her hair and flounced off, scowling in disbelief. He shook his head as they walked away muttering to themselves about “the lack of decent help around here,” and “who does he think he is, anyway?”

 

He was letting these arrogant snobs get to him. Again. He’d sworn he would stay above this pettiness, but after so many years, it definitely started to wear on a man. Ben pushed his hand back into the wall, pulled out a second pile of wires and began wading through them. He was definitely going to need a drink after dealing with this mess.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Professor Quinn Donovan regarded the latest disaster of what had only this morning been his lab with a resigned sigh.

 

*Why* did he let himself get talked year after year into teaching Introduction to Biology? And why, for Heaven’s sweet sake, did he invariably end up with the dregs of the campus student body, interested only in fulfilling a science requirement with as little actual effort as possible? Was it too much to ask to just once in a while have a student who actually *liked* the subject, or at least took more than a passing interest in it? His upper level courses were a pleasure -- a teacher’s greatest satisfaction came from broadening a receptive young mind. He certainly didn’t do it for the pay.

 

And now, yet again, he had to cope with the remains of what had begun as a routine lab assignment gone horribly awry, taking with it a good deal of the audio-visual equipment in the process. Simple enough: dissect the pre-prepared frog cadavers, making note of the various vital organs, etc. on the diagrammed handout. How did such presumably “gifted” young men and women manage to use dead *frogs* to destroy his classroom in such a short time? Not even living, breathing specimens. He still vividly recalled a few years ago when a mouse had escaped its cage on his desk and created havoc until it was recaptured and promptly died of a heart attack a few minutes later.

 

Sighing again, he began methodically clearing away debris from the lab tables, carefully rinsing beakers and equipment and putting them away underneath. He purposely shied away from the blackened ruin of the computer monitor lying in the corner; that, he knew, was far beyond his extremely limited abilities with all things electronic, and would necessitate outside help. However, he could at least make the rest of the lab presentable so that he wouldn’t be completely embarrassed to have the young technology expert – what was his name? Something Calhoun? – hopefully put it to rights again in time for the next day’s lectures.

 

Yes, he mused, glancing again at the jumbled mass of wires and shattered screen, *definitely* beyond me. You would think that for what these students’ parents are paying in tuition, they’d have some respect for school property… Whoever heard of throwing a partially dissected frog at someone anyway? And could it not have been foreseen that said target would jump out of the way, knocking into the computer table and bringing the whole thing crashing to the floor? What purpose, that?

 

Obviously it would have to be replaced and in short order, too. Mark Winters would *not* be pleased. In fact, he’d probably find a way to blame Quinn for it, citing yet again a lack of proper discipline, and probably dock his pay for the repairs. Fortunately, Quinn didn’t have to rely on his salary to support his extracurricular interests, but still-

 

He finally reached the station usually staked out by his favorite student in the class – young Anthony Walker. Now *there* was a gifted student, and Quinn thoroughly enjoyed spending time with him. Anthony or “Ani,” as Quinn called him in private – clearly *loved* science, and took to Quinn’s classes like a duck to water.

 

Not for the first time, Quinn reflected on the child prodigy that had come to the school years ahead of his time. At only 12 years old, Anthony was already taking college-level classes and had won special accommodation at the Academy. Full of enthusiasm and with enough bravado to withstand the often scathing comments from his classmates about letting “babies” in, he was a bright beacon in Quinn’s often mundane academic life. It even appeared that the lad might seriously consider a major in biology, or at least in one of the sciences, virtually guaranteeing his presence in Quinn’s classes for the next few years. Hopefully the boy would be able to strike a balance between his demanding course load and childhood pursuits.

 

Don’t grow up too fast, Ani, Quinn had counseled the boy on more than one occasion. You have only a few short years to be a child, and a lifetime to be an adult. Don’t waste it.

 

Don’t worry, Professor, the boy had responded cheerfully. This is fun. My old school was boring.

 

Yes, it probably *was* boring for him, thought Quinn. I worry about holding his attention in an Intro class already. But next year he can take the upper levels, once he gets the prerequisites out of the way. Maybe that’ll slow him down a little bit. He approvingly regarded the perfectly laid out dissection – neatly pinned, every part correctly marked and labeled on the hand-out and, miraculously, not covered in stains from flying detritus. Yes, once again, the boy had done an almost artistic rendering of the subject matter.

 

Quinn chuckled to himself – he *was* tired, if he could compare a dissected amphibian to, say, a Renaissance painting… Oh, shite, man, stop being so maudlin. You need a good hot cup of tea, or even something stronger. Call what’s-his-name and get him working on that bloody computer, then you can go home and listen to some music and peruse that new gallery catalog that came in the mail…

 

He dialed the Help number and punched in the code for the IT Service Department. The extension rang and rang, but no one picked up. Damn. He really needed that replacement computer for tomorrow’s lectures, and Ben – yes, *that* was his name -- had the only key to the equipment closet. Why didn’t the man at least have a pager or something?!? Quinn needed this fixed *now!*

 

Glancing at the clock, he was startled to see how late it had gotten. Once again he’d lost all track of time. Small wonder Ben wasn’t answering. Probably long since gone home, or out with some lovely young thing for a night on the town. Young people today were full of energy and never worried about mundane things like 8:00 classes. Well, there was no helping it; he’d just have to leave him a note in his office for first thing tomorrow morning and hope for the best. Now if he could only figure out where that was. Funny, he’d never realized he had absolutely no idea where the young man hung his hat during the day. He just remembered seeing him flitting about the campus, usually with a puckered frown on an otherwise attractive face, arms often full of stuff of which Quinn couldn’t even venture a guess, but always firmly headed *somewhere* and generally in a hurry…

 

Consulting the directory, he realized he didn’t know Ben’s last name, so it would be difficult to locate his office. Damn, damn, *damn.* Now what? Wait, someone at the Dex would probably know where his office was. Students were always hanging out at the Dex until all hours. Yes, that was the ticket. Grabbing his jacket, he headed out the door.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It took a good two hours past the normal workday for Ben to get the wiring into some semblance of order just to be able to put it back into the wall. There was still sufficient chaos, in his opinion, to justify dismantling the entire building, but he knew Dean Winters would never let him do that. So a basic rewire would have to do until the building was up for remodeling. Too bad he hadn’t applied for overtime. Too late to hit the bus back to his apartment, but maybe it was a good night for a drink.

 

The walk from the Mineral Sciences building to the Dex took about ten minutes. The campus was lined with trees and the setting sun blinked through the maturing leaves. Autumn was swiftly approaching and the evenings were beginning to get chilly, while the days remained warm.

 

The Dex was the only bar allowed on campus, mainly because of the role it had played in the founding of the school. As the story went, some guys simply got together there one night and decided to start a school. That was it, plain and simple. So the Dex got to stay on campus, and had over time become the students’ primary hangout spot.

 

An odd combination of bar, teahouse, coffee shop and deli all rolled into one, the Dex never closed. There was a wall of mason jars full of tea leaves and blends just inside the door, allowing the customer to pick his or her desired combination and bring it to the counter. A large glass-windowed cooler sat just beyond, with cakes and candy bars to tempt students pulling all-too-frequent all-nighters. Mismatched tables and chairs randomly dotted the floor under slowly spinning ceiling fans. Booths lined a single wall of the oddly shaped public area. Across from the booths was a computer bar where the more serious students could plug in and get wired on the shop’s coffee and other caffeine offerings late into the night.

 

Ben slipped in the side door closest to the bar and fell onto one of the stools. He’d never been much of a drinker per se, but a cold beer sounded awfully damn good about now. Glancing at the chalkboard for the brew of the day, he asked for a pint. The dark liquid seemed to stare at him from the glass and he spent what seemed an eternity just staring back, trying to let the day, week, okay, the *month* go.

 

The drone was somewhat louder than usual for a weekday, but nothing in the stray bits of conversation Ben could pick up was anything of consequence. Upcoming midterms, unfair homework assignments, who was hooking up with whom, all trivial matters in Ben’s opinion, and things that just made the world go fuzzy around the edges. The first sip of beer broke through the noise and Ben gazed thoughtfully into the glass. He could have waxed philosophical on the flavors that swirled around his tongue.

 

The light jingle of the main doorbell caught Ben’s attention as he enjoyed the after-glow of the drink. In from the dark strode a tall man, looking like something right out of the movies: silvering reddish-brown hair ruffled from the evening breeze, darker beard and moustache rising above a slightly rumpled shirt and tie under a tweed jacket, and a battered briefcase full of papers haphazardly sticking out on all sides. The man looked harried, and a bit out of breath.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The campus had never before seemed so big or so dark or so empty. Quinn had tried a couple of likely (or so he’d thought at the time) places where he might stumble across his quarry’s hiding place, but no luck. But there was no other way: he *had* to find the Academy’s resident computer genius and get that damned machine up and running again (or at least given a decent burial somewhere quiet and not likely to be found anytime soon) and so here he was, hoofing it across the grounds in a seemingly aimless (though well-intentioned) hunt for his elusive prey. And damn it, *this* time he’d be sure to write down his name, his office location and somewhere he could be found when needed!

 

The soft glow from the Dex came into view as he turned the corner from the Languages building. Ah yes, someone was definitely at home and something to drink or even a light meal sounded rather inviting about now. The evening was dank and chilly, and he’d only worn a blazer today. Tea, maybe some hot soup... Did they even *have* soup at the Dex? The bar generally catered to a much younger crowd and he generally preferred other entertainments. His long legs carried him determinedly forward.

 

Entering the warmly lit building, he was delighted to find fellow faculty member Adele Gauliere seated in a corner, sipping something fragrant and daintily nibbling on a croissant and a plate of fresh fruit. Adele would surely know how to find… whatever his name was. He could picture the young man clearly in his mind’s eye, but his name stubbornly refused to come to light. He approached Adele’s table and she looked up, smiling warmly at him.

 

“Bon soir, Quinn, ca va? Sit, join me.” Her voice was throaty, soft as velvet, like her lovely face and form. Not for the first time, Quinn was reminded of Botticelli’s famous painting, “Birth of Venus.” Adele could have been its inspiration.

 

He cleared his throat and sank gratefully into the chair opposite. Signaling a passing waitress, he asked for a cup of Earl Grey tea. “Ca va bien, merci,” he replied, smiling back at her. “Adele, can you help me? I’m desperate. I really need to find the young man who does the electrical stuff around here. You know the one I mean, late 20’s, early 30’s, wavy auburn hair, rather intense, about so tall? I’ve a bit of a predicament in the lab and I need to get it fixed before tomorrow morning’s classes, and-“

 

Adele smiled indulgently. How very typical, she thought. “But of course, cheri, you mean young Benjamin Kensington, n’est-ce pas? Silly man, so ignorant of anything that does not involve a Petri dish or a glass slide. Oui, I’m sure he can help you.” She gestured to her plate of half-eaten fruit. “I have strawberries,” she purred in a deliberately sultry tone, “and I know how much you enjoy them.” She pushed the plate toward him with a “help yourself” gesture.

 

“*Kensington,* yes, that’s it! Ben Kensington. Adele, merci mille fois, I *knew* you’d know who I meant!” Quinn absently snagged a berry from her plate, following it with a sip of the steaming tea which had appeared almost magically at his elbow. “I had a number to call him, but it didn’t answer. Do you know where his office is, by any chance? Maybe I could leave him a note under his door.”

 

Adele considered. “I believe he has a small cubbyhole in the Mineral Sciences building, though why they put him there, I have no idea.”

 

They chatted while Quinn drank his tea and shared her fruit plate. They made a cozy picture.

 

Finally Adele began gathering her things to depart. Quinn rose automatically when she did, belatedly remembering he still needed to get Kensington a message somehow, then he could also go home. “Adele, thank you again, jolie. Let me see you to your car. It’s quite dark out.”

 

Adele’s soft laugh was a tinkling silver bell in his ear. “Merci, Quinn, my gentil knight. Always the gentleman.” He helped her on with her coat, snagged a final strawberry from her plate and nonchalantly reached for both checks. She gave him a dazzling smile as they walked arm in arm toward the door, blithely ignoring the envious stares that followed them.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben watched as the big man – “Quinn,” she’d called him – sat down with an extremely attractive woman he did not immediately recognize. Presumably another faculty member, but he couldn’t have said which one at the moment. He watched closely as they talked and thought he heard his own name over the crowd. Ben nursed his beer and listened harder.

 

“*Kensington,* yes, that’s it! Ben Kensington, Adele, merci mille fois, I *knew* you’d know who I meant! I had a number to call him, but it didn’t answer. Do you know where his office is, by any chance? Maybe I could leave him a note under his door.” The man seemed positively elated at the news.

 

Wonder what he wants me for this time? The idea that this undeniably handsome man wanted him at all sent a surprisingly warm feeling to his core.

 

Ben recognized him now. Professor Quinn Donovan had a positive predilection for destruction when it came to anything that plugged into an electrical outlet. His classes were popular, and the biology lab almost constantly in use. Since repairs to the equipment usually had to be conducted after hours, Ben could not recall having ever actually spoken to him. And he was sure he’d never seen him with a woman, any woman, in anything remotely resembling a romantic tryst. Not that you could call anything that happens around here romantic. Ben had sadly found out what some of the students thought the supply closets were for, and just about any empty classroom as well.

 

Ben abruptly realized he’d lost track of the conversation and now saw Donovan helping the petite blonde on with her coat. Quickly paying for the beer, not wanting to lose his courage (mostly derived from gulping the dregs), Ben ducked out the back door, carefully tailing the big man to try to get a better idea of what it was he wanted, preferably without that spectacularly beautiful woman at his side.

 

Oh, crap, he suddenly thought, even as he edged closer to the couple, who were moving toward one of the staff parking lots. He read the license plate on the European car – “JOLIE” – and belatedly recognized Adele Gauliere, the French professor. How could he have forgotten the rampant campus gossip about Professors Gauliere and Donovan – they were said to be a hot item around here, very discreet, mind you, but definitely in a committed relationship. Wedding bells were expected at any minute. Feeling now as if he was intruding on a private moment, he turned to edge back into the shadows, but stopped when he unmistakably heard his name again:

 

“Now, cheri, remember, it is Ben Kensington. With a K, c’est ca? Shall I write it down for you? Really, Quinn, I worry that you will one day forget something critical in one of your experiments and blow yourself *and* the lab to pieces. I should have thought you would have had young Kensington’s number memorized by now; you are so – how do you say – *‘challenged’* in these matters.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as she moved closer. “And mon Dieu, he is such a bon homme – so very handsome. Surely you have noticed. Must you have a *reason* to contact him? Can you not simply call him and invite him over? Quinn, mon cher, take a chance. If he says no, then what matter? But perhaps he will say yes.”

 

Eyes twinkling in the light of the street lamp, she tiptoed and impishly kissed his cheek, then slipped into the driver’s seat and waved as she drove away.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn stood under the street light for a long moment, watching as Adele drove away, pondering her advice. Was his eccentric fascination with young Kensington *that* obvious? Hopefully not, or if it was, then only to Adele, who knew him better than anyone. He’d have to be more circumspect in the future. There was no telling what Mark Winters would do if he suspected that one of his most tenured professors (and an Academy alumnus, besides) secretly fantasized about a beautiful man probably young enough to be his son. From a distance, of course; he’d hardly ever had occasion to interact with the young IT consultant, except to beg once again for assistance in rectifying some technological terror in the lab. Quinn shuddered at the very thought of how tongues would wag if *that* got out, then turned and headed back across campus, reminding himself that he still had to find Kensington before next morning’s classes.

 

Get a grip, man, he told himself firmly, as he walked briskly toward the Mineral Sciences building. You’re just having a mid-life crisis of some sort, nothing more.

 

Intent on his errand, he failed to notice Ben standing quietly in the shadows, silently trying to grasp what had just gone down.

 

~*~*~*~

Ben waited until Professor Donovan had disappeared into the darkness again before making his way home. Something deep inside had urged him to try to get the big man’s attention, but too many years of self-consciously blending into the scenery had kept him silent. This was, after all, a tenured department chairman. Ben had had it drummed into him that he was to work invisibly at all costs. So he’d wait and visit Professor Donovan’s lab first thing in the morning and address whatever the problem was in an official fashion, by the book. No point in getting on Dean Winters's short list again anytime soon.

 

Besides, right now the beer he had gulped down on an otherwise empty stomach was beginning to make the lights swirl oddly.

 

As he slowly made his way home, Ben’s head filled with thoughts of the gentle smile, the easy, natural way he'd held Professor Gauliere’s coat and the door for her, how he had obviously enjoyed his tea. The warmth in the deep-set blue eyes as they had rested on the lovely French teacher had spoken volumes. The rumors swirling about campus about them ranged from the utterly benign to the openly scandalous. Why, just the other day he had overheard some of the students lewdly speculating that the recent absence of both teachers from campus had been to participate in some sort of secret sex orgy at a local hotel, where students and professors alike had whiled the night away exploring the “Inner Workings of Human Biology,” with Professor Donovan as guest lecturer and Professor Gauliere his willing “audio-visual” exhibit. Ben shook his head. Somehow that image didn't jive with what he had just witnessed, but then again, you never knew...

 

Still, there was something fascinating about the man. Those big hands cradling the dainty tea cup had been perhaps the most anachronistic thing Ben had ever seen. A guy like that should be drinking stout… or something equally robust, he thought, mentally shrugging. And *strawberries?* No way. Definitely a carnivore. Ben grinned to himself at the image of Donovan ripping into a thick steak, juices running down his bearded chin as he banged on the table with his fist and bellowed for more ale to wash it down. It was oddly appealing.

 

The lights in his little apartment shone in the darkness, beckoning him home with a shy welcome. The lock turned quietly and Ben stumbled up the stairs and into the small living room area. The bed in the far room seemed much too far away, so he dropped onto the futon and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think anymore about strong hands dwarfing a fragile tea cup. Or caressing a certain French professor's soft skin in a dimly lit boudoir somewhere...

 

His eyes slid closed as he drifted, languidly imagining those hands touching *him* in a slow, sweet seduction. Mesmerizing blue eyes smiled down at *him,* clearly aroused but deliberately holding back, prolonging their mutual pleasure, building, building...

 

Ben slept. And dreamed.

 

Of hands that swept over his bare chest, brushing tantalizingly across the hard peak of a nipple. Of hands that ran down smooth flanks, of a beard that scratched his neck, of a mouth warm against hot skin. Sweat ran tracks along his spine, which arched to touch even more flesh. Clear blue eyes tore into his mind. A gentle hum came from smiling lips that opened to emit a loud beeping noise-

 

Ben’s eyes flew open and he lunged at the sound, throwing himself off the futon on which he had passed out the night before. From the floor his hand hit the coffee table repeatedly until it landed on his cell phone, which beeped angrily for him to wake up for a new day. Fumbling with the button, Ben silenced the little phone and fell back on the floor.

 

Today he would find out what Professor Donovan needed fixed this time. The man was continually having equipment issues, a lot more often than most teachers at the school. In fact, Ben routinely found himself in Donovan’s biology lab once or twice a month, almost as if the big man planned it that way. Shaking his head, Ben pushed the idea from his mind. No one would *deliberately* break that much equipment just to be around someone, especially not with how expensive those pieces were. Besides, Donovan was seldom present when Ben made his service calls. Picking up his phone again, he saw how late it was and hurried to shower and change, having never gotten out of his clothes from the previous day.

 

The shower started out the hottest Ben could tolerate, but lingering images of big hands, a neatly trimmed beard and that long lean body made it difficult to finish the shower quickly. Ben ruthlessly spun the dial all the way over to COLD and shivered as the water suddenly turned icy. Oh yeah, that *definitely* put an abrupt end to pleasant fantasies.

 

Jumping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and ran to the bedroom. No shirt looked professional enough, no pants crisp enough. His shoes were unpolished and where were his clean socks? Nothing in his closet seemed to suit, and it suddenly hit him.

 

He was trying to look nice for Professor Donovan.

 

He finally settled on a green button-down shirt over dark gray dress slacks, something he might wear for his annual review. Ben knew the green would pick up the color of his eyes and secretly hoped the effect would not go unnoticed. Black leather belt and loafers completed the picture, and he couldn’t help but smile at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not bad.

 

An irate beeping from the phone reminded him the bus would be arriving soon and sent him scrambling for the door. Cell phone, wallet and an oversized set of keys fell into pants pockets as Ben ran for the bus. If he missed this one, the next bus would get to him to the campus over half an hour late for work, and the Dean somehow always knew when he was late.

 

The bus ride gave Ben time to again think about Professors Donovan and Gauliere. They had looked so comfortable with each other, so completely at ease in one another's presence, together...

 

The “biology lesson” slid again unbidden into his mind. Now Ben pictured the magnificent woman spread naked on a bed like a butterfly, wings spread and pinned, on display for eyes eager to learn the inner workings of the species Femina Fantastica. However, it was the tall man leading the lecture that riveted Ben's attention. Broad, strong hands pointing out each individual feature, gently tracing the more sensitive areas-

 

The bus’s sudden stop dropped Ben out of his unexpected daydream and he glanced around, blushing, hoping no one had noticed. He quickly slipped out the back exit of the bus and ran for the Mineral Sciences building. Pulling the big key ring from his pocket, he slid the 14th key from the end into the lock on his office door.

 

Just inside the door was a mottled tan envelope with his name on the front, penned in a stylish burgundy-inked script. Almost as if it was written with a quill, Ben thought to himself, oddly charmed. Carefully, he opened the letter:

 

Good morning, Mr. Kensington:

 

I regret to inform you that we experienced yet another unfortunate bit of a  
mishap yesterday in my lab, requiring your particular expertise. The victim’s  
remains may be found in Room 173 of the Ferguson Building. As I have a  
lab scheduled at 10:30, I would be most grateful if you could examine and  
hopefully rectify the problem in time.

 

I shall be in the lab all morning, should you require further explanation  
regarding the situation.

 

Thanking you in advance for your anticipated prompt attention to this  
request, I remain, sir,

 

Your humble (and much chagrined) servant,

 

Quinntrell J. Donovan Ph.D  
Chairman, Department of Biology

 

Ben read the formal handwritten note twice. The penmanship was elegantly Old School, the stationary undoubtedly expensive, judging by its weight. Unlike the usual terse work orders usually delivered by email or to his cell phone, this read almost like an invitation to a social gathering. He read the closing again:

 

Your humble (and much chagrined) servant,

 

Self-effacing, even apologetic for taking up Ben’s valuable time. A gentleman indeed. Too bad there weren’t more like him on campus.

 

Glancing at his watch, Ben noted it was now 9:00. Since Professor Donovan had failed to elaborate on the exact nature of this latest catastrophe, he’d better bring a full barrage of tools and equipment if he was going to get this fixed before the scheduled lab. Besides, given the source, it was more than likely going to be a major repair job anyway. He glanced at the note again:

 

The victim’s remains may be found…

 

Yeah, sounded pretty dire. Best to come prepared to do a full autopsy. A construction belt typically held most of the tools Ben needed for any given project on campus, but a full duffel bag of miscellaneous parts was probably warranted this morning.

 

Duffel in one hand, 4-year-old diagnostic laptop in the other (too much to ask for an updated computer when this one hadn't exploded yet), Ben headed off to the sciences building.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The halls were dim inside the Ainsley Ferguson Memorial Science Building (affectionately referred to on campus as “Old Fergie”), as the lights were all on sensors, ostensibly to keep electric bills down and supposed innovation up. Ambient light from the windows was just enough to keep the artificial lights from engaging quite yet. Ben hurried down the hallway to the elevator at the back of the building, but pulled up short as a vaguely familiar dark-haired female stepped into his path and deliberately barred his way.

 

“Well, well, I was hoping I’d find you, especially after all the trouble you’ve caused me.” Her voice was hard, her expression openly contemptuous. The dark eyes, dramatically rimmed with kohl, stabbed into him like twin swords. “If you’d just done what I *told* you to, *when* I told you to do it, everything would have been fine.” While she had yet to raise her voice, it was obviously a strain for her to remain quiet.

 

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ben shifted the duffle uneasily, glancing down to make sure he didn’t drop it.

 

He never saw it coming.

 

The sharp resonance of the slap rang through the hallway and the stinging pain made Ben see stars.

 

“How *dare* you speak to me as if we were equals!” Her face was livid. “You exist strictly to work for the students of this school, for *our* benefit, and I *told* you I needed something done. Your blatant refusal to comply could be construed as a breach of contract, you *do* understand that, don’t you? My parents found out about those test sites, and they took my *phone* away because of *you,* you self-righteous *bastard!*” Her voice was harsh as she loomed over him in her 4” designer heels, breathing hard.

 

While normally not a fan of physical confrontation, especially with a woman, it would have been nice to have had a hand free in case she came at him again. But the equipment was too expensive to just let drop. Well, guess that shows how much I’m worth in the grander scheme of things, Ben thought ruefully. “Look, I’m sorry, but I told you yesterday, that isn’t part of my job. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could get fired for helping a student cheat.” He kept his voice low but firm, his head ducked in case she took another swing at him.

 

The girl’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Did you just accuse me of *cheating?* Why, you obnoxious little *worm!* You wouldn’t know the first thing about- and I was *not* cheating! I was using those sites as a… a *study* guide, I’ll have you know,” she said haughtily, conveniently overlooking the fact that she had casually admitted to cheating only the day before. She leaned in close to Ben’s face, her heavy perfume making his eyes water. Taking it for a sign of fear on his part, she pressed her advantage, one long lacquered fingernail poking into his chest through his shirt.

 

“Now listen up, you miserable little peon. You’d just better hope this all blows over, because if it doesn’t I will personally make your life a living *hell.* Why they allow someone so incompetent to work here is beyond me. I thought this school had *standards.*” She sneered and took a step past him, bringing them shoulder to shoulder. “Maybe next time – if there *is* a next time -- you’ll do what as you’re told and be *happy* you’ve still got a job,” she hissed, then strode off down the hall, stiletto heels clacking loudly in the silence.

 

Expression blank, Ben stood alone in the dim hallway. In all his years at the Academy, he had occasionally been made to feel close to worthless, but to have it said right to his *face* – and by a spoiled rotten little bitch of a student, not even by a faculty member – was almost enough to make him walk out then and there, paycheck be damned.

 

He sighed and felt the letter in his breast pocket rustle against his shirt. A subtle reminder that he still had a job to do and a rush job at that. For Professor Quinn Donovan, grand lord of the dichotomy. Time enough to wallow in self-pity at lunch, assuming he even got lunch today.

 

Ben bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs, needing the extra time to compose himself. Hopefully he could get the job done quickly, then go hide in his office for the rest of the day.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Room 173 was on the second floor and the door was propped open. A soft flute concerto drifted out into the hallway. Ben would have liked to have stopped to listen, but duty called.

 

“Hello? Professor Donovan?” he called politely as he walked into the lab.

 

The man from the Dex was seated behind a large desk at the front of the room, textbook in one hand, an old-fashioned fountain pen poised over a note pad in the other. He wore an immaculate white lab coat with the Academy crest over a deep blue shirt and tie. Glancing up over rimless reading glasses, he smiled in obvious relief. Setting the pen and book down, he rose and strode around the desk, hand extended.

 

“Ah, the incredibly talented young man who keeps coming to my rescue, cleaning up my unfortunate messes,” he said warmly. Ben carefully set the duffle on the floor and grasped the large hand in introduction.

 

“Ben Kensington, and I’m just the IT guy, thanks,” he said, forcing a smile as the word ‘incompetent’ slammed into his mind again. “I’m just glad I got your note so early, sir.”

 

“Quinn Donovan, just a doddering old relic of a biology teacher, and you are *incalculably* invaluable to me and to my department, I assure you.” The man smiled again, blue eyes twinkling. “So, would you care to examine the deceased?”

 

Ben frowned, concerned. “The *deceased?*”

 

“Yes, I’m afraid there was a bit of a fracas yesterday involving a dead amphibian and a class of somewhat less-than-enthralled students. There were… casualties.” He gestured to the rear corner where a computer monitor sat on the floor, screen completely blown out, housing scorched. The CPU sat next to it, looking a bit better by comparison, but then again, most issues there were likely internal anyway.

 

“Ah, well, I’m afraid the ‘deceased’ will not be making a recovery, Professor. That’s definitely going to need to be replaced. Let me see what I can find for you. Excuse me.” Ben set the laptop on the floor next to the carnage and headed back out into the hall to see what he could quickly scavenge from other classrooms. It took him the better part of half an hour to find a monitor that would not be readily missed and haul it back to the bio lab. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to reassemble the computer on the desk where Donovan indicated it belonged. Grabbing the laptop, he booted it up.

 

Ben was so lost in his programming that he failed to notice Donovan approach from where he had retreated near one of the lab stations. Until a big hand lightly cupped his chin and gently turned his face up and to the side.

 

“What’s this?” The gravelly voice was quiet, calming, as if approaching a skittish animal, but Ben was still shocked at the unexpected intrusion into his personal space.

 

“What’s what?” he asked hazily, distracted by the close proximity of the larger man. He smelled pleasantly of pipe tobacco, well-oiled leather and a minty mouthwash. Recalling the cloying perfume the girl downstairs had been wearing, Ben thankfully breathed in the clean masculine scent. Much better…

 

“This handprint on your cheek.” His chin was slowly rotated to the side, bringing the injury into the light.

 

“Oh, that,” Ben said reluctantly, unable to think of a convincing lie. “Um, there was a slight… misunderstanding with a student downstairs. She had asked me to help her… well, cheat on some exams, and I said no. She was pretty upset because her parents found out and took away her cell phone. Of course it’s all *my* fault.” He shrugged, trying not to sound petulant and groaned inwardly. Why am I telling him this? And the answer came back at once: Because he asked. And somehow Ben recognized that the older man genuinely cared about his answer.

 

“Damn. Was this perchance a tall girl with long dark hair, rather theatrical make-up and a perfume that could fell a rampaging elephant?” Donovan asked, frowning sympathetically.

 

“Yeah.” How did he know? Don’t tell me he overheard it… No, there was no way the big man could have escaped back upstairs and into the safety of his lab that fast, even if he could have magically floated through walls.

 

Donovan sighed. “Xandra Criton. Will she never learn,” he murmured, shaking his head. The voice, like his touch, remained soft, but the eyes seemed to glitter for an instant. Ben swallowed hard as the man studied him, hand still cupping his chin. Green eyes locked with blue for a long moment and then, all too soon, the hand was slowly removed. Ben almost staggered but caught himself in time, strangely bereft at the loss of contact.

 

He cleared his throat and looked back at the laptop. The diagnostic had finished and the computer was ready to run another day. He smiled, struggling to recover his professional demeanor. “Well, looks like you’re back in business, Professor. That should keep you going for a while, at least until I can get you a replacement. I’ll have to check the inventory; we may have to order a new one.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn watched from a safe distance as young Kensington finished working his magic on the thrice-damned contraption more commonly known as a desktop computer. Not for the first time, he thanked all known deities that the Academy kept this technological miracle worker on permanent retainer. While none of the catastrophes was deliberate, they were somehow far more prevalent in his lab than elsewhere, or so he had been reminded more than once by Dean Winters, usually during reviews of the Biology Department’s proposed annual budget. Small wonder that, by tacit agreement, there were seldom any requests to upgrade the admittedly outdated equipment.

 

Quinn sighed and tried to concentrate on his Advanced Botanicals lecture notes, but leaf-green eyes, auburn hair and a cleft chin kept floating in front of him. He was secretly relieved to see that Ben Kensington was no “boy,” but a grown man, and an extremely attractive one at that. Quinn wondered if he had subconsciously labeled him a “boy” in an attempt to dissuade himself from any prurient interest. Seeing him now, up close and personal, he found himself thoroughly captivated by the younger man. And it felt… good.

 

At the same time, the shamed look in those eyes as he confessed his earlier encounter with Xandra, from which he had clearly emerged on the losing end, disturbed Quinn mightily. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard of that particular young lady making someone’s life miserable over some imagined slight. She had a sharp intellect and a sharper tongue, which she didn’t hesitate to turn on anyone who crossed her, including some of the faculty. Her parents were major financial contributors to the school, which Xandra apparently felt entitled her to special privileges. Quinn had made it clear her freshman year that he would not tolerate any such antics in *his* department, and she had surprisingly respected his wishes, to a point. Apparently a strong application of discipline, coupled with an utter disregard for her blatantly flirtatious manner, had made a positive impact. Or, more likely, the bully in her had been stymied at encountering a force bigger and stronger than her own ego.

 

It was encouraging to hear that her parents had finally woken up and taken similar measures to try to curb her headstrong ways, but distressing to hear that she had apparently targeted young Kensington as a result. Quinn detected a pattern of behavior emerging, one which bore closer inspection, as well as prompt remedial measures. Ben needed a large booster shot to his sagging self-esteem, and Quinn suddenly knew exactly how to administer it.

 

Ben straightened up from his laptop. “Well, looks like you’re back in business, Professor. That should keep you going for a while, at least until I can get you a replacement. I’ll have to check the inventory; we may have to order a new one.” He started packing up.

 

“Ben, I cannot thank you enough. You are a life saver, truly.” A big hand rested briefly on Ben’s shoulder. The lad blushed, clearly pleased, and Quinn was charmed by his modest, unassuming manner. Something told him the young man probably didn’t often get the appreciation he so richly deserved. Well, if Quinn Donovan had anything to say about it that was going to change. The sooner the better.

 

“Just doing my job, Professor. You’re one of my best customers. Maybe I should be thanking *you,* instead of the other way around.” The obviously sincere praise was a healing balm to his wounded ego. The warmth in the cerulean-blue eyes and the deep voice was spellbinding. The touch of the big hand on his shoulder burned right through his shirt. Lucky Professor Gauliere, he thought wistfully. Take good care of him, he’s a keeper. Don’t let him slip away.

 

“So, Ben, I hope to see you at the Halloween party this weekend,” Quinn said casually, as he studied the replacement monitor and CPU, hoping like hell he looked like he knew what he was looking at. Confounded infernal machines… “It’s going to be the event of the season, I hear.”

 

Ben stared, suddenly at a loss for words. Had Professor Donovan just invited him to a party? “Ex-excuse me?” he stammered.

 

The big man turned, a wry grin quirking the corner of his mouth. The neat beard and moustache gave him an oddly devilish look. “The Halloween party? At Sydney Hall tomorrow night?" he said innocently. “You *are* planning on coming, I trust?”

 

Maybe it was Ben’s imagination, but was Donovan holding his breath? While he hated to disappoint the older man, since of course he’d had no plans whatsoever to attend, he heard himself saying, “Oh, yes, of course I’ll be there! Absolutely, yes. The Halloween costume party. Wouldn’t miss it.” What the hell?!?!

 

“Excellent! I shall look forward to it.” And perhaps you will be my reward for agreeing to wear that damned costume Adele picked out for me. The vixen…

 

As Ben struggled to find a way to politely extricate himself from this new predicament, a towheaded boy of at most 11 or 12 came barreling into the lab, hauling a backpack nearly as big as he was. If he was a student, he was incredibly small for his age. Did Professor Donovan have a son?

 

“Hey, you got it figured out, Professor D! And I didn’t even have to send the repair notice for you this time! See, I *told* you that system wasn’t ‘the Devil incarnate’ like you said.” The boy beamed happily as he bounced onto one of the lab stools and pulled a thick textbook from his bag, followed by a shiny laptop.

 

Well, guess that explains the handwritten letter, Ben thought to himself, trying hard not to smile at the boy’s obvious excitement.

 

Donovan chuckled dryly. “Ben, this rather tactless bundle of energy is Master Anthony Walker, one of the very few students who actually *cares* to be in this class,” he explained, with obvious pride. “Ani, please say hello to Mr. Kensington, who has once again saved your decrepit old biology teacher from untold disaster.” The blue eyes rested fondly on the boy.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Anthony. I’m Ben.” He held out a hand to the boy, who took it readily.

 

“Nice ta meecha, Ben.” He grinned and started booting up in preparation for the lecture. “Wizard job on fixing Professor D’s old dinosaur over there.” He leaned in and stage-whispered slyly, “Doncha think you could maybe find him one that’s, you know, goof-proof?” He gave the professor a sidelong teasing look and grinned again. “Maybe lock it up in a steel cage or something? Or at least super-glue it to the table?”

 

Donovan playfully cuffed the boy’s blond hair. “That’ll do, Ani, that’ll do. Don’t make me flunk you, imp.”

 

Ben grinned at the affectionate by-play between student and teacher. “I’ll see what I can do, Ani.” The room was slowly beginning to fill with students for the 10:30 lab. "Well, I should probably be going. It looks like it’s going to get busy in here. Until tomorrow night, Professor. Nice meeting you, Ani."

 

“Catch ya later, dude!” Ani called behind him, and Donovan genially waved as he started back to his desk to begin the lab session.

 

Ben hesitated at the door, but his nerves got the better of him and he bolted down the hall. His quick pace slowed as he made it halfway down the stairs and tried to think.

 

He’d just been invited to a *campus-wide* Halloween costume party by the chairman of the Academy’s Biology Department. He had, of course, heard about the party when it was announced to the student body weeks earlier. But he was just the IT maintenance guy, so he wasn’t officially involved, barring any technological malfunctions, at which point he would likely be called in from home.

 

Your humble (and much chagrined) servant,

 

Your humble servant

 

The handwritten burgundy script floated again in front of his eyes. The walk back to his office somehow didn't seem nearly as long.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The morning sunshine woke Ben up early Saturday. Over breakfast he found himself thinking back to the previous day’s conversation in the Biology lab.

 

A *costume* party? Ben would never have imagined Dean Winters allowing something so completely Bohemian to even take place on school property, much less *hosting* it at his adjacent Georgian mansion. But after Professor Donovan had so nonchalantly asked if he was attending, and after his traitorous mouth had gone into motion before his brain was properly engaged, he supposed he was now committed to showing up. Too bad the last time he had worn a costume was back in the days of childhood trick-or-treating. Too late to try to rent something, even if he could have afforded it, which he definitely could not.

 

After fruitlessly searching his closet for something passable, he suddenly remembered a toga party scene from an old movie on TV a few nights earlier. A simple white sheet would suffice. Now, if only he *had* one.

 

A quick trip to the local Good Will store yielded a queen-size white flat sheet with a wide red border, a pair of flat-soled sandals with long leather thongs to tie up the calf (women’s, but no one needed to know that) and a gold rope belt to keep the whole thing in place.

 

But gathering the pieces of the costume was nothing compared to trying to arrange it on himself. How did those Roman guys *do* this every day back then? Oh right, they'd had servants to dress them every day. After several tries (and a check on the Internet for pictures), he finally had the fabric properly wrapped around his body. He studied himself in the mirror, gauging the effect.

 

Ben had never been one to visit the gym, but years of hauling monitors and computer towers around campus -- a cart would have been too much to ask -- had kept him pretty fit, with a hint of lean muscle. Studying his reflection in the mirror, he had to admit it wasn’t half bad, especially for a Do-It-Yourself-And-Do-It-Fast last-minute effort.

 

Fabric draped over his left arm and chest, while his right arm and shoulder remained bare. He had to admit the red trim was a nice touch. The sandals were tied up to his knees and the hem left his kneecaps exposed. The rope belt miraculously kept the whole thing in place. You’ll do, Ben, he thought to himself, turning from side to side to get the full effect. You’ll do.

 

There was a strange flutter of excitement in his stomach as he thought about seeing Professor Donovan again, in a social setting this time. Wonder what he’ll be dressed up as? Maybe Albert Einstein or some sort of mad scientist. The thought made him grin.

 

A glance at the clock told him he needed to get a move on. Grabbing a small cloth pouch from a pair of sunglasses, he stuffed in his wallet and door key, took one last look in the mirror and headed out the door.

 

He was sprinting down the sidewalk to catch an approaching bus when he belatedly realized he’d forgotten to grab his coat. Not just because of the cool autumn breeze against his bare legs, but also due to the curious stares from passersby. Well, it *was* Halloween, after all… You’d think people could put two and two together and figure out he was on his way to a costume party.

 

He turned and ran back to his apartment, grabbed a jacket from his closet and dashed back out again. It still left his legs bare, but at least it gave some protection against the temperatures.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Adele was carefully applying makeup at her dressing table when she heard Quinn’s distinctive knock downstairs. Silly man, she thought fondly, why doesn’t he just let himself in? She went to the head of the stairs and called down, “Come in, cheri, I will be down shortly.”

 

“Can’t open the door.” The deep voice was muffled. “Hands full, can’t reach my key.”

 

Naturellement, she thought. Ah well, it wasn’t as if Quinn had not seen her en déshabillé before. She sighed philosophically as she went downstairs to let him in.

 

Quinn stood on her front step, dressed in his customary slacks and button-down shirt and Harris Tweed blazer. His long arms overflowed with yards of plaid wool, leather brogues and other accoutrements, including a rather lethal-looking claymore. He scowled at her over the pile and she gracefully stepped aside to allow him to enter.

 

“Quinn, dear, I would have thought you’d already be dressed. We will be late to the party.” The fact that she herself was not yet dressed was irrelevant. Of course, Quinn was too much of a gentleman to comment.

 

“Have you any idea how to put this… *thing* together?” He thrust the load at her. “It looks so simple in the pictures, but-“

 

Her laugh was affectionately exasperated. “If you did not know how to wear it, then why did you *choose* it?”

 

He gave her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised. “If memory serves, jolie, this was *your* idea, not mine. Ipso facto, it is up to you to help me carry it off.”

 

Muttering dire imprecations under his breath, he headed for the staircase and she followed him, laughing softly to herself and imagining the impact on the other guests later tonight. And hopefully one guest in particular.

 

~*~*~*~

 

When they reached the bedroom, Quinn unceremoniously dumped his armload of fabric, shoes and accessories on Adele’s pale pink silk coverlet, sending the claymore and several lace pillows clattering to the floor. He sighed resignedly. This endeavor might have been more trouble than it was worth. What had he been thinking, to let himself get talked into it?

 

Adele shook her head in mock dismay. “Please tell me you can at least manage the socks.”

 

Quinn obediently fished through the pile, found the package with the socks in them and discovered… ribbons? He looked up at her, bewildered. “Why are there *ribbons?*”

 

“*Flashes,*” she corrected. “They go under the fold of the socks and…” She trailed off. “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

 

Quinn shook his head. “I thought I made that clear at the store. But you talked me into it. As usual.” He shrugged, then gave her a wry smile, though it came out more like a grimace.

 

“Ah, bien sur, I seem to recall holding a gun to your head until you surrendered. Or perhaps it was that wicked-looking weapon between your shoulder blades,” she pouted, pointing to the claymore on the floor. “As always, the woman is to blame. Eh bien, let us begin.”

 

First the socks, to the knee and folded over, with the pointed flashes tucked underneath. The brogues took some doing -- Quinn could not get the laces to stay up until Adele provided two safety pins. She tried not to giggle at the sight of him in his boxers and undershirt in stark contrast to the formal shoes and long woolen socks.

 

“Really, cheri,” she admonished teasingly, “I do not believe Scotsmen wear *boxers* under their kilts. If I am not mistaken, is it not more traditional to go… how do they say? ‘Commando?’” She gave him an impudent grin and he blushed furiously.

 

“Thank you for that invaluable bit of cultural trivia, jolie, but I think not. It’s far too chilly a night. Besides, consider the effect it could have on impressionable young minds. We must maintain a modicum of propriety, after all.” The twinkling blue eyes – his best feature, in Adele’s private opinion -- belied the somber tone. “Besides,” he said loftily, “as you very well know, I came over from *Northern Ireland,* not Scotland. So grant me a wee bit of artistic license, if only to preserve some modicum of dignity.”

 

She sighed dramatically. “Oh, very well. Really, Quinn, you are far too conservative. Tell me truly, do you really think that Mel Gibson wore boxers under *his* kilt when he made *Braveheart?* And he was outdoors for the majority of the movie, as I recall.”

 

She had to sidestep quickly to avoid the swat aimed at her derriere. Then his arm slid familiarly around her slender waist as Quinn drew her, unprotesting, against his side. “Adele, m’dear,” he breathed in her ear, “you are utterly without shame. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” He kissed her lightly and she leaned into his embrace, caressing his bearded cheek.

 

“Et je t’aime aussi, mon cœur. Always. Trust me in this. It will be well worth the trouble, I promise.”

 

Quinn released her and resumed struggling with his costume. “I only hope you’re right, jolie. Right now, I feel like a perfect fool in this… get-up.”

 

“Perfect you may be, cheri, but a fool? I think not.” And unless I am very much mistaken, she thought, you will be a sensation at the party tonight. And you will thank me for this later.

 

Adele fished the kilt from the mound and gave it a shake to realign the pleats. Setting it carefully aside, she drew the linen Jacobite shirt from the pile and handed it to him. Then she untangled the final piece of plaid, which would be worn draped over his broad shoulder.

 

Picking up the kilt again, she turned to face Quinn, who had somehow managed to get into the shirt unassisted. Handing him one corner, she wrapped the kilt around his trim waist, instructing him to buckle the first set of clasps while she held the rest, then to buckle the second set. This accomplished, she stepped back to survey her handiwork.

 

Even in just the kilt, shirt and footwear, he cut an impressive figure. The open-necked shirt above the dark green kilt with its red and yellow plaid was very flattering. One could easily imagine him striding purposefully across a Highland glen. But Adele knew the devil was in the details.

 

Wrapping the last piece of fabric around the long lean body was like a dysfunctional dance, ending with a masculine drape pinned on the shoulder. She loosened the shirt’s leather ties a bit so as to accentuate the strong neck. The leather sporran handily solved the problem of wallet and keys, and the small ornamental dirk went into the top of one sock. The antique silver clan pin on his shoulder was the perfect accent.

 

Claymore in one hand, leather belt and scabbard in the other, Adele faced her companion. “I think this will complete the look quite nicely.” She handed the belt to Quinn, watching as he fastened it around his waist. It hung just low enough to secure the kilt on his lean hips. She offered him the claymore with both hands, a coy smile playing across her lips. If he could have read her mind in that moment...

 

Quinn slid the claymore into its sheath and stepped back for her final inspection.

 

In place of her favorite biology teacher stood a bold Scottish Highlander, reminiscent of the legendary Rob Roy. Bearded chin held high, shoulders back, chest up, feet apart in an unconscious fighting stance. Gone was the reclusive academic with the unfortunate habit of slouching because of his height. This was a warrior who would not hesitate to defend hearth and home against any threat, a man who took what he wanted, by whatever means necessary. It was most becoming. For a brief moment, Adele entertained thoughts of foregoing her plans for the evening.

 

“… Well?”

 

She was amazed at the hesitation, the hint of uncertainty in his voice. He really had no appreciation of his physical impact. Her smile lit up the room. “You are positively staggering, mon cher,” she assured him. “Now finish lacing me up. We do not want to be late.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Adele studied herself in her full-length three-way mirrors. The stylish Academy languages professor had transformed into a French noblewoman of the first order: elegant Court gown, high-heeled jeweled slippers, tall powdered wig and a huge plumed fan hanging from a loop on her wrist. With Quinn’s assistance on the laces, her already slim waist was now practically non-existent, while her magnificent breasts strained at the low-cut basque. Quinn openly admired her reflection over her shoulder and she smiled coquettishly back at him, then turned to inspect him once again.

 

“Quinn, you are the epitome of a proper Scottish laird. C’est tres charmant.” She adjusted the plaid tartan lying across his shoulder and settled the silver clan crest pin holding it in place. “I only hope you will not be too cold,” she added mischievously, gesturing toward the bare knees between the intricately pleated kilt and the socks that stopped several inches below. What a pity he had so vehemently rejected her suggestion of what to wear (or not) underneath, but she knew better than to push. Still, there would undoubtedly be those who would wonder.

 

Quinn’s chuckle was ironic. “You’re worried about *me* taking a chill? Inch for inch, jolie, I daresay *you* have more exposed flesh than I.” His gaze was just short of a leer, but Adele merely laughed and turned back to her mirror. He reached for her floor-length velvet cape on the bed and held it open for her. “Your carriage awaits, Votre Majesté. Shall we depart?”

 

Adele raised her eyes heavenward. Men could be so completely clueless when it suited them. “Quinn, I cannot *possibly* ride in your car in this.” She spread her hooped skirts and twirled slowly before sinking into a deep curtsey and dimpling up at him. “You go on ahead. I shall follow. I wish to make an entrance.” And if all goes as planned, mon cher Quinn, you will not be worrying about how *I* shall get home tonight.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The bus ride to Sydney Hall, the Dean of Students’ lavish off-campus home, had to rank as one of the most uncomfortable Ben had ever experienced. The sandals and sheet under his jacket had drawn more than a few curious glances, even a couple of rude snickers when his back was turned. The bus stopped just in time to prevent him losing his nerve altogether and turning back. He exited and took a deep breath, reminding himself again at whose invitation he was there. Not the Dean’s, certainly, but that of Professor Donovan, who had been with the Academy even longer than Mark Winters. A steady stream of costume-clad students dotted the way to the party, replete with bursts of laughter and speculation as to who would show up with whom. Ben joined the tail end of a larger group and allowed himself to be swept along with the crowd.

 

The big Georgian mansion loomed up ahead but Ben hung back, waiting for the others to head inside, hoping to miss the fanfare of their arrival. As the noise began to move away from the solid walnut double doors, he quickly darted inside, slipping off his jacket as he stepped across the threshold.

 

Merriment and excitement bounced off the high ceilings, but none of it seemed to coincide with his arrival, which was exactly how he’d planned it. This affair was every bit as ostentatious as he would have expected from an Academy event, and he was way outside his comfort zone. The costumes looked expensive, custom-made and had probably been planned out months in advance. Drinks were being served in real glasses, not the cheap plastic cups Ben remembered from his college days. Upper classmen sipped something with bubbles in slender flutes, while the younger students drank soda or punch. The faculty members he recognized enjoyed an assortment of mixed drinks and wines. Smiling uniformed waiters circulated with silver trays of elegant canapés and hors d’oeuvres.

 

After finding the coat check — a freaking *coat check?!* — Ben made his way to the upstairs ballroom, where the main festivities seemed to be centered. This seemed as good a place as any from which to locate Professor Donovan. He scanned over the tops of heads, knowing his target would stand literally head and shoulders above the rest. Only the Dean himself came close to Donovan’s height.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The house was packed with students and faculty alike. They swirled from doors to tables laden with food and drinks, to a dance floor with flashing lights and not one, but two live bands. Dean Winters really knew how to throw a party!

 

Xandra Criton lounged indolently in an archway in her low-cut silk Greek chiton. Her long black hair was elaborately braided with gold rope and piled stylishly high. The ultra-short skirt accented her shapely legs in their expensive gold sandals. Her troupe of loyal followers had ooh’ed and aah’ed over her costume as she’d exited the cloakroom in all her scantily clad glory. She was the undisputed belle of the ball.

 

Professor Donovan strolled into the ballroom, looking like a walking travel ad for a vacation in the Hebrides. Xandra’s mouth watered as she catalogued every little detail: the strong calves in the woolen socks, the pleated kilt, the heavy plaid across his shoulder. The sword. And he was *alone,* an opportunity not to be missed. She’d give him a few minutes to settle in and get a drink, then “accidentally” cross his path-

 

Professor Gauliere swept smilingly through the doorway, resplendent in silk brocade and diamonds, sparking a barrage of gasps and applause. Donovan was instantly at her side, claiming her for a dance, and as they waltzed around the floor, Xandra retired to a corner and pouted. Not even she could hope to compete with the petite Parisienne, though she did find herself grudgingly admiring the older woman’s style. Shit.

 

But what really surprised the raven-haired beauty was when that nerdy *computer guy* showed up a few moments later. He was wearing what looked like a sheet clumsily wrapped around himself, and looked more out of place than even the lowliest freshman. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a *total* zero in the looks department, but come on, a *sheet?!?* She wrinkled her aristocratic nose. Really, when did they start letting the *help* in?

 

Watching him edge shyly through the crowd, she realized he was… looking for someone? This was too much. Her already bruised ego would not allow her to sit back and let this… *riffraff* get away with crashing *her* party!

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben’s senses were assaulted as he entered the opulent ballroom. It looked like the entire campus and then some was there, in every kind of costume imaginable, all a thousand times better than his. Why was he here again, he wondered to himself? Oh yeah, because Professor Donovan had invited him. Now if he could only find him in this mob. He didn’t have the faintest idea what he’d be wearing, but there wouldn’t be very many men that tall on campus.

 

A romantic waltz was playing, but no one seemed to be dancing. In fact, most of the crowd seemed to be intently watching… what? Then Ben saw an elaborate powdered wig whirl past in the arms of a bearded Highlander with silvering hair and a proud possessive smile.

 

Professors Donovan and Gauliere occupied the whole of the dance floor as if they owned it. And the way they danced together, they *did* own it, hands down. Eyes locked, hands joined, bodies moving as one. Their intimacy made him flush with embarrassment at his earlier thoughts about the decidedly alpha male biology professor. They clearly belonged with each other, *to* each other. Why would Donovan ever look at anyone else with such a vision in his arms?

 

Spontaneous applause jarred Ben out of his thoughts as the waltz ended and couples gradually began returning to the dance floor. The party seemed to start up again and conversation gained in strength and volume. Ben watched the Academy's Russian Literature professor claim Donovan’s beautiful partner, while a student in a highly revealing Little Red Riding Hood costume eagerly approached Donovan, who smiled congenially and led her onto the dance floor.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn fairly burst with pride as he watched Adele glide, swan-like, into the ballroom. She had been right – as usual -- to refuse his offer of a ride: that gown would have looked worse than Lady Diana Spencer’s wedding dress if she’d ridden with him in the Jag. And of course she had wanted to make an entrance.

 

He strode forward and bowed, gallantly offering his arm to escort her to the dance floor. At his signal, the band switched to a slow, romantic waltz and she moved familiarly into his arms. Someone dimmed the lights as they swayed in time with the music. Years of practice (and an occasional dance lesson) made it look easy, and they both enjoyed showing off for the room. A few moments later Pavel Gregorivich, aka Tsar Nicholas II, politely cut in and Quinn danced with a pretty Little Red Riding Hood, hoping he didn’t come across as the Big Bad Wolf. Then, over the disappointed protests from a growing circle of female admirers, he smilingly quit the field to find a drink.

 

As he edged through the crowd, the old familiar whispers were everywhere:

 

Look at that gown she’s wearing, isn’t it stunning? They’re such a handsome couple, so perfect for each other, wonder when he’ll finally put a ring on her finger…

 

Didn’t you see that magnificent sapphire she’s wearing? You *know* he bought it for her! Don’t you think-

 

She’s so lucky. Wish a guy would look at *me* that way. Any guy…

 

Yes, he thought fondly, nodding a warm greeting to Deborah Billingsley, Dean Winters' tireless executive assistant and de facto hostess at most Academy events, she *is* perfection, ladies and gentlemen, and she knows it, too! And no, I did *not* buy the ring, though I did help her negotiate the price in that little shop in Venice last summer. Saucy wench – wearing it on her left hand, waving it around for everyone to see – you just love to fan those flames, don’t you, my darling?

 

He caught Adele’s flirtatious smile from across the room and silently toasted her with his glass of single-malt whiskey. Brava, cherie.

 

She flirted her fan and blew him a kiss, then mouthed, "Good hunting, mon coeur. Bonne chance!”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn felt a pleasant flush that had nothing to do with his exertions on the dance floor or Mark Winters’ excellent whiskey. He had just spotted young Ben Kensington on the far side of the room. The lad had actually shown up. The simple toga and sandals suited his build and coloring and to Quinn’s thinking, put the other costumes (except Adele’s, of course) to shame. He found himself strangely moved by the younger man’s lack of sophistication, his obvious discomfort in the bacchanalian setting. He had a sudden urge to wrap him in his arms and soothe away the frown lines on that arresting face.

 

As he began stalking his unsuspecting prey, Adele smiled behind her fan from across the room and mentally crossed her fingers.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben gradually began to relax as the party swirled around him. He danced with a couple of the students and chatted over punch and canapés with a cute new staff member who seemed to take a shine to him. No one seemed upset or even surprised at his being there. Not even Dean Winters, who merely gave him a cordial nod and a pleasant, “Good evening, Mr. Kensington,” in passing.

 

He occasionally glimpsed Professors Donovan and Gauliere, but shied away from approaching them. Even when they weren’t physically together, there was an almost visible connection he didn’t want to think too hard about. In fact, Ben wouldn’t be surprised if they used tonight’s party to finally announce their engagement, or even that they’d eloped over the summer. That disheartening thought drove him to the bar, where he ordered a double scotch and downed it as fast as he could without choking. It didn’t help much.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn moved through the crowded room, casually greeting students and faculty, trying to unobtrusively keep Ben in his sights. The young man seemed to be enjoying himself. Not a bad dancer, either. He imagined guiding the younger man around a candlelit dance floor, then mentally shook himself at such whimsy.

 

Good on you, Ben, he thought, watching him chat up the attractive new teaching assistant in the Poly Sci Department. The lad had taste, no question. He could do a lot worse than-

 

“Why, Professor Donovan, look at you! You look so handsome tonight.” A familiar voice caught his ear and he turned.

 

“Ah, good evening, Xandra. Enjoying yourself, I hope?” he asked politely.

 

“Oh yes, I just love Dean Winters’ parties. I’ll miss them after I graduate. Almost as much as I’ll miss you.” Heavily mascaraed eyelashes batted flirtatiously up at him.

 

He privately thought her skimpy costume better suited to the boudoir than a ballroom. Ben’s simple toga was far more appealing. The thought caused a surprising physical reaction, and he had to quickly compose himself before answering. Fortunately the room was dimly lit. “How… gratifying. Tell me, have you given any further thought to pursuing your Master’s?”

 

“No, I decided I’m not really Master’s material. There’s not much call for biology majors outside of a research lab or teaching. Of course, I’d get my credentials in a heartbeat if *you* offered me a job.” She gave him a seductive smile and Quinn sighed inwardly. This wasn’t the first time she had not-so-subtly hinted at her… availability. He gently disengaged the clinging hand from his arm.

 

“Sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have any openings,” he said lightly. “Budget constraints, you know. But I’m sure you’ll make the Academy proud.”

 

“Oh, I will,” she agreed, the bright smile barely masking her disappointment. She stepped closer to him. “I saw you and Professor Gauliere on the dance floor earlier. You were so… masterful. You must promise me a dance. You’ll break my poor heart if you don’t.”

 

Quinn smiled absently, only half-listening as he glanced around the ballroom again, hoping to spot Ben. “I’m sorry, Xandra, but I’m afraid my dance card is filled. Enjoy the party.” He moved away.

 

If looks could have killed, he’d have been a dead man.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Xandra fumed as she watched Donovan stroll away. Was the man blind, deaf and *dumb?* She was every bit as good looking as Adele Gauliere and *half* her age besides! And her costume was *much* better than some old ball gown and a poufy wig. Hadn’t he realized by now she’d only majored in biology because of him? What did she have to do, dance naked in front of him? Actually, that could be kind of fun, especially if he was naked, too. Or maybe wearing just his lab coat…

 

Just then she spotted that moronic Ben Kensington dancing with some blond Marilyn Monroe wannabe. It made her mad all over again: what right had he to be here tonight? He wasn’t a student and he wasn’t faculty, he was just… the help! He had no right to dance, to drink, to enjoy himself at an Academy function, especially while she was so utterly miserable.

 

He needed to be put his place. She’d make sure of it this time.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben felt an alarming sense of déjà vu as Xandra Criton appeared in front of him. She was wearing a skimpy Greek costume that showed just about… everything. And she had plenty to show off. She looked amazing, and Ben could only imagine how his second-hand bed sheet and sandals must have seemed by comparison. Her greeting confirmed his worst fears.

 

“Oh my god, look what the cat dragged in,” she said sweetly, one hand on her hip and head cocked to one side. “Wherever did you find that costume? It’s positively… *you.*”

 

“Um, thanks,” he stammered, looking for a way to ease past her without appearing impolite. But she seemed to sense what he was trying to do and moved with him, again blocking his way.

 

“Now don’t be rude, walking away like that when I’m talking to you. Don’t you think you at least owe me a dance? Of course you do,” she said, grabbing him by the hand and half-dragging him toward the dance floor.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Having a good time, Adele?” Mark Winters asked, handing her a glass of champagne. “You look very beautiful tonight, but then I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.” He smiled down at the petite French professor, who half-curtsied in response.

 

“Merci bien, kind sir. It’s a wonderful party, Mark. You’ve outdone yourself.” She clinked glasses with him.

 

“Deborah took care of everything, as usual. I just told her when and where.” Winters gazed around the room. “Where’s Quinn taken himself off to? I can’t believe he just abandoned you after that lovely waltz. You need to teach him better manners,” he teased.

 

“Oh, I let him off his leash to go find a drink and mingle a bit,” Adele said lightly. “He’ll be back. What did you think of his costume? Isn’t he splendid?”

 

“You obviously chose it for him. Rather… *historical,* isn’t it?”

 

Adele twinkled naughtily at the oblique reference to a lack of undergarments and sipped her champagne.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Xandra expertly steered a hapless Ben onto the dance floor, just as another slow number began. She immediately moved in close, leaving him no choice but to take her in his arms, wondering what he’d done to deserve this nightmare. Her perfume was even worse than he remembered, and there was very little clothing between them. In fact, he doubted she was wearing much of anything beneath the short tunic. But then again, neither was he. The thought made him dizzy.

 

Ben usually enjoyed dancing, though he probably wouldn’t win any contests. But this was different. He tried to keep a polite distance, but she kept pressing up against him as they moved to the music. All that soft creamy flesh, the exotic perfume… He was only human, but damn it, she was just a kid, and not a very nice one at that. Now if he could have been dancing with Quinn Donovan…

 

“C’mon, geek boy,” the ebony-haired girl purred in his ear, “show me what you’ve got. Prove to me you’re good enough to run with the big dogs. Even in your second-hand, hand-me-down, coyote-ugly costume. You’re kinda cute, in a *nerdy* sort of way.” Her laugh was low and malicious, while her fixed social smile made it look like she was having the time of her life. And she probably was, Ben thought ruefully. At his expense.

 

“If you’re so concerned with my costume, why did you want to dance with me? You could have just steered clear.” Ben was more than a little annoyed by now. He fought a growing urge to turn and walk away, to just leave her stranded on the dance floor. But his parents had always stressed the importance of good manners, especially when dealing with women, and the last thing he wanted or needed was to make a scene in front of students and faculty alike. Or in front of Professor Donovan. She wasn’t worth it. So he mentally stiffened his spine and tried to concentrate on simply getting through the dance, after which he could hopefully extricate himself from her grasp.

 

“Don’t push your luck, son. I can make your life so miserable, you have no idea. But if you behave yourself, I can also make things happen for you. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, get it?” Her face was inches from Ben’s, almost making his eyes cross as he tried to focus. He tried to step back, but she moved right along with him, arms slipping around his neck to maintain contact.

 

Ben groaned inwardly. Was she seriously *still* trying to get him to help her cheat on her exams? Or did she have something even more outrageous in mind? “Listen,” he said carefully, “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to be talking about this, especially where someone could overhear and misunderstand. But I told you before, I *can’t* help you. It would mean my job. I can’t take that chance, even if I wanted to.” And you shouldn’t, either, he thought. You’re a senior, for crying out loud. You’re graduating in the spring. Are you really willing to risk that? He tried to smile in a friendly, non-combative manner, hoping to defuse the situation. “Let’s just finish the song and forget we ever had this conversation, ok? Thanks.”

 

Xandra’s eyes narrowed. “Why, you self-righteous little *prick.* Do you have any idea who you’re talking to, *geek* boy? They said you were smart.” She sneered through rigidly smiling lips. “What a joke. You think you’re *better* than me? Smarter than me? Well, you know what, I told you I could help you. I can also hurt you, big time. And it wouldn’t take much. So last chance, *Benjy.* Think about it. Think long and hard.” She gave him a sugary sweet smile, but her eyes were as cold as ice.

 

Ben heard the warning bells in his head, but his pride wouldn’t let him back down. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stared her down. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

 

“You slimy little *toad,*” she breathed. “I warned you.” Her lips drew back in a malicious grin.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was chatting with a group of fellow faculty members when he heard the commotion. Turning, he sought to locate the source. The scene on the dance floor made him see red.

 

Xandra Criton was waving her arms and berating her dance partner. Couples around them had dropped back to get out of the way, and as he moved closer, he saw that her hapless target was none other than Ben Kensington. The poor guy was trying to back away, but he was hemmed in and no one was coming to his aid.

 

“You *pervert!*” she screamed in his face. “You *bastard! * How *dare* you!” She raised her arm and Ben shrank back, unable or unwilling to defend himself.

 

Quinn elbowed his way through the crowd, nearly trampling a waiter in his haste. “That will do, Xandra. This is behavior entirely unbecoming to a lady,” he said sternly, grabbing the offending limb. “What a shame you’re not feeling well. Too much excitement, I suppose. Let me find someone to help you to your car.” Firmly pinning the girl’s arms to her sides, he half-turned and spoke to another student standing nearby. “Ah, Rebecca, please be good enough to see that Xandra here collects her things and gets safely to her car, thank you very much.” He fought to control his emotions, not wishing to cause Ben further embarrassment, but determined that Xandra be taught a lesson for once.

 

“Yes, Professor,” replied the girl, clearly intimidated by his uncompromising tone. “Come on, Xan, let’s go, okay?” She reached out to take her friend’s arm.

 

~*~*~*~

 

People were staring. Ben was trapped, nowhere to go. The bitch had set him up. The silence was deafening. He stepped back, closed his eyes and braced himself…

 

“That will do, Xandra. This is behavior entirely unbecoming to a lady.”

 

Ben’s eyes flew open in surprise.

 

Like an avenging angel, Professor Donovan had appeared out of nowhere, trapping the dark-haired girl’s arm in one big hand. His broad shoulders in the linen shirt and plaid tartan completely blocked out the light. The girl struggled to free herself, but Donovan was as immobile as a mountain. There was no way she could move without hurting herself. She’d probably have bruises in the morning from that grip. Remembering the blow he’d received the morning before, Ben somehow couldn’t feel very sorry for her, though he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have those hands touching *him,* holding him. He swallowed hard, grateful the older man’s attention was focused elsewhere for the moment.

 

“What a shame you’re not feeling well. Too much excitement, I suppose. Let me to find someone to help you to your car.” Donovan turned slightly, all the while firmly restraining the girl’s arms at her sides. “Ah, Rebecca, please be kind enough to see that Xandra here collects her things and gets safely to her car, thank you very much.” Outwardly solicitous, but the manner clearly brooked no argument.

 

“Yes, Professor, the girl said nervously. “Come on, Xan, let’s go, okay?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Xandra stood dumbfounded. *She* was being told to leave? Professor Donovan was telling *her* to go? What about Geek Boy in his tacky get-up? How could her most favored professor take his part? Worse, the man seemed completely indifferent to her protestations of innocence. Time for a different approach. Tears flowed right on cue.

 

“Please, Professor,” she sobbed brokenly, “you don’t understand. He tried to *hit* on me. He said the most horrible things to me, talking about things he wanted to do to me, and… and then he tried to put his hand under my skirt! It was *awful.* What could I do?” She sniffed hard and leaned back against him, hoping he’d at least loosen his paralyzing grip and put those strong arms around her. She secretly thrilled to his rough handling, imagining those hands touching her, holding her, bending her over his big desk…

 

A linen handkerchief was pressed into her hand, but Donovan otherwise remained strangely unmoved. “Dry your eyes, Xandra. Don’t want to ruin your makeup after all. You’re not hurt. But I think you’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Good night.” A hand patted her shoulder, but the touch was impersonal, with little warmth in it.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben stood silent, mortified that Professor Donovan had witnessed the argument and worse, had felt it necessary to publicly come to his aid. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him then and there. But then he heard Donovan politely but decisively tell *Xandra* – not him? -- to leave the party.

 

Watching the dark-haired girl storm off, followed apprehensively by her friend, Ben was relieved the immediate problem was over. But he’d clearly made an enemy. It was going to be a long semester, a long school year and he'd have to watch his back. Because clearly no one else would.

 

Except apparently one kilt-clad biology teacher, who was even now eying Ben with concern. “Are you all right?” The voice was low, pitched for his ears alone.

 

“Fine, thanks,” Ben said stiffly, feeling the flush climb to his hairline. Why me, he wondered. And why is it that every time I see the guy, I’m coming off the losing end of a scuffle with *her?*

 

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Donovan said softly. He looked as if he’d have liked to say more, but wasn’t sure how it would be received.

 

Ben laughed, an ugly, bitter laugh. “Not *your* fault, Professor,” he said. “I’m used to it by now.”

 

Donovan shook his head. “No, Ben, it *is* my fault. I asked you here tonight. And Xandra is one of my seniors. Please allow me to make amends.” He gestured toward the bar. “Let’s get a drink, shall we? And perhaps some fresh air?”

 

The man looked incredible in that kilt. And the leather sporran hanging right where… Scotsmen traditionally wore nothing under their kilts, he remembered, and felt the hot flush stain his cheeks again. Geez, Ben, he’s a department chairman! He pays you one little bit of attention and you want to climb him like a Maypole! What’s he going to think?

 

Under any other circumstances, he’d have loved to join Donovan for a drink and a quiet stroll. But right now he just felt like a child being offered a treat to forget a boo-boo. Well, Donovan could go back to his pretty little “Marie Antoinette” and their hoity-toity friends and Ben would be fine, thank you very much. He stood as tall as possible and stiffened his resolve. “Thank you,” he said, as politely as he could manage through clenched teeth. “I’m fine. Please don’t trouble yourself, Professor. I’m a big boy.” He held his head high, part from stubborn pride, part to meet those mesmerizing blue eyes. Damn, the man was tall…

 

Rebuffed, Donovan straightened, face and tone now politely neutral. “Very well, if you’re quite sure,” he said quietly. “Again, my apologies for any unpleasantness you may have endured. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening. Excuse me.” He bowed slightly, turned and made his way back to where Dean Winters waited. Ben watched resentfully as they moved together toward a quiet corner, probably to discuss Ben’s having “crashed” the Dean’s party. Deciding to make himself scarce, he headed for the opposite side of the room. Everyone he passed either glared or conspicuously looked the other way.

 

Great, just great. What was I thinking, coming here tonight anyway? I’m nothing like the rest of them! Just because Professor Donovan took pity on the poor benighted IT guy and decided to play Lord of the Manor. What do they call it? Lese majeste? Get stuffed, all of you! Good riddance!

 

He knew he was feeling sorry for himself but damn it, he’d done nothing wrong and now had just missed getting socked in the jaw for the second time in two days by one of Donovan’s precious little snowflakes. He deserved another drink. Or two. Or several. Then he’d go home and lick his wounds and let the rest of the world pass him by.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“What happened, Quinn?” Mark Winters asked concernedly as Donovan strode off the dance floor. Adele, too, looked apprehensive and Quinn reflexively put his arm around her, taking comfort in her unspoken support.

 

He sighed heavily. “Oh, Xandra Criton just got her surgically enhanced nose out of joint again, Mark. Nothing new. You know how she is.” He turned back toward the dance floor, looking to see where Ben had gone. This was *not* the way he had envisioned the evening going…

 

“Should I talk to Kensington?” Mark asked, frowning. “You know Miss Criton’s family is-“

 

“One of the Academy’s biggest financial contributors, yes, Mark, I know,” Quinn recited impatiently. He’d heard it all before, many times, and not just about Xandra Criton. “But that doesn’t give her the right to go around *assaulting* Academy staff, or anyone else, for that matter. And I will not stand by and watch the little bitch make life miserable for everyone around her, just for her own entertainment. Are you aware that she *struck* him yesterday morning, Mark? He was on his way to fix something in my lab and she ‘conveniently’ ran into him and deliberately picked a fight. She’s gunning for him for some reason, and poor Ben can’t – or won’t – defend himself. She’s a bully and a coward, and somebody needs to set her straight damned quick. Otherwise she’s going to be in for a world of hurt when she graduates and finds out the rest of the universe doesn’t revolve around her.”

 

Winters stared, amazed at his colleague’s vitriol. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd seen Donovan this angry. He had a reputation around campus for “adopting” strays and loners, but this was extreme even for him. He watched the blue eyes anxiously scanning the room and wondered what there was about young Kensington that had provoked such a strong reaction. Maybe it was the kilt. Maybe he was channeling some distant Gaelic ancestor. Maybe somebody should confiscate that sword, just in case.

“Quinn,” he said quietly, “Ben Kensington is a grown man. He doesn’t need a babysitter. Let him fight his own battles.”

 

Donovan snorted in disgust. “How *can* he, Mark? He doesn’t dare even raise his voice against a student or faculty member, for fear he’ll get *fired* for it! We’re damned lucky to have him, but no one seems to get that. He’s brilliant, talented, dedicated. We’d better hope he doesn’t decide to just up and quit over this. God knows he’d have reason.”

 

He downed his drink in a single gulp and forcefully told himself to calm down. No point in getting Winters all worked up and have him call Ben in on Monday morning for one of his infamous “little talks.” Quinn had suffered through enough of those himself to know better than to wish that on anyone. Especially Ben, who probably didn’t have a tenured contract to protect him from being terminated on the spot for some imagined slight.

 

Though the experience wouldn’t do Xandra any harm. Damn, but he’d be glad when she graduated next spring and was out of his hair. Offer her a job in his department indeed! Bugger that. His grip tightened unconsciously on Adele’s waist and she leaned into him, gently rubbing his back and murmuring sympathetically.

 

“All right, Quinn, all right, calm down, take it easy,” Winters soothed. “If you’ll vouch for him, I’ll let it go this time. But I’ll be watching.”

 

Great, just great, mused Quinn to himself, as he watched Winters move away to do some damage control among the other guests. Could this evening possibly get any worse?

 

~*~*~*~

 

As the party began to wind down, Ben decided he probably shouldn't linger. A loud rumble outside caught his attention just as the coat check girl handed over his jacket. Damn, he hadn’t thought to check the forecast. Then again, there wasn't much you could wear over a toga to keep dry if it rained anyway.

 

With a roar, the heavens suddenly opened. Drenching downpours, thunder and lightning, the works. All those expensive professional costumes – a lot of people probably wouldn’t be getting their deposits back, come Monday morning. At least Ben was only out a few bucks for his, and the sheet could even be used again. Even in his quasi-inebriated state, the irony was not entirely lost on him.

 

Unfortunately, there was no way he could take the bus home now. He’d be soaked through in no time, and he’d gotten enough funny looks coming in as it was. He stared dejectedly out the window, chiding himself for not having left earlier instead of drowning his sorrows at the bar and punishing himself with fantasies of Quinn Donovan and Adele Gauliere walking happily arm in arm down the aisle. Or locked in a passionate embrace in a luxurious bridal suite.

 

A lightly accented voice startled him out of his moody contemplation. “Ben? Did you bring an umbrella? Or a coat?” Professor Donovan stood a few feet away, seemingly almost… paternal in his concern. Ben hadn’t even heard him approach. “It’s turned rather cold out, and as you can see, it’s raining heavily. I have an umbrella-” He faltered, then gave a sheepish chuckle. “Oh bollocks, it’s in the car. Not much help for either of us, eh? Perhaps Dean Winters has one you could borrow. Where are you parked?”

 

“No car, Professor. I take the bus.” Matter-of-fact. Go ahead, make something of it, he thought rebelliously, then checked himself. Donovan was just being polite, no reason to get his back up over it. Why did he always feel so cynical around this man, who had done absolutely nothing to warrant it? Ben supposed it was a defense mechanism of some sort, to hide his very real attraction.

 

Apparently inured to sarcasm, Donovan smoothly responded, “Then may I offer you a ride home? My car is right out back-“

 

“Oh, thanks, Professor, but that’s really not necessary. The rain will stop in a few minutes. No problem. But thanks anyway. It’s very kind of you.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was surprised at how much Ben’s cool, excruciatingly polite refusal stung. He had refrained from approaching him again after the incident on the dance floor, sensing that the young man needed some time to compose himself. In fact, he hadn’t even been sure Ben was still there until he had glimpsed him at the window, morosely watching the rain fall. And small wonder: that light windbreaker he was clutching was no protection against the storm outside.

 

As if reading his mind, Adele had slipped under his arm, tiptoeing to whisper in his ear. “Don’t let him leave, silly – it is pouring rain and he is wearing sandals! Do you want him to catch pneumonia? Allez, Quinn, saisir l’instant!” With an embrace that artfully masked a not-so-subtle dig into his ribs and an encouraging nod in Ben’s direction, she had glided away again.

 

Seize the moment. Right. He self-consciously cleared his throat and tried again. “Ben, really, insist. Happy to do it. It’s quite late and the buses are most irregular this time of night. I’ll just grab my coat and bring the car around. Won’t be a moment.” Please, he added silently. Please say yes.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Though Ben wanted badly to accept Donovan’s offer, he still heard himself stubbornly protesting, “It’s out of your way, Professor. I mean, doesn’t most of the faculty live over on the Row? My apartment’s in the other direction. I can’t ask you to…” Ben trailed off, taken aback by the disappointment on Donovan’s face. He suddenly felt like a total ingrate – Donovan had invited him to the party, had come to his aid when Xandra attacked him on the dance floor, and Ben had been too proud to take him up on his offer of a drink and a walk. Now he was back, offering Ben a ride home so he wouldn’t have to catch a bus in the downpour. Maybe he was just being kind, but how many opportunities might Ben otherwise have to be alone with him? “Well, if you’re sure it’s not an imposition, thank you. A ride would be great,” he said with a grateful smile, hoping he didn’t sound too pathetically eager.

 

The big man beamed. “Right you are. Let me just bid our host good night. Meet you out front.”

 

Clear blue eyes, white meat-murdering teeth and bearded lips that could keep Ben up nights. He nodded mutely, eyes never leaving Donovan’s face. Then tried not to stare too obviously as Donovan turned on his heel and carefully made his way through the dwindling crowd toward the rear of the house. He knew he’d be dreaming about that kilt for weeks.

 

~*~*~*~

 

A dark green vintage right-hand drive Jaguar pulled up a few minutes later, headlights gleaming in the rain, wipers going furiously. Oh, wow… The passenger door clicked open and Donovan called out, “Come on, Ben, let’s go! *Run,* lad!”

 

Ben hesitated, then took a deep breath and dashed out the door, jacket over his head, but it did no good. Water immediately splashed up through his sandals and drenched him to the skin. The car door shot closed as Donovan gunned the engine and Ben was nearly flung backward over the seat. He barely managed to grab the seat belt and fasten it as the car lurched forward.

 

“Sorry about that,” Donovan called over the roar of the powerful engine and the windshield wipers. “Pedals are wet. You all right?” His reckless, devil-may-care grin was infectious, and Ben couldn’t help but grin back.

 

“No worries, Professor. I’m good, thanks.” He was also very aware of his bare legs below the wet sheet, which was now sticking to every part of him and outlining virtually *everything* the good Lord had given him. He self-consciously draped the jacket over himself, trying not to think about what all that moisture was doing to the leather seats.

 

“Very good. Sit back and enjoy the ride.” Donovan nodded, then turned and concentrated on the road ahead.

 

Ben slowly relaxed into the warmth of the car, savoring the incongruity of the moment. I’m riding in a vintage Jaguar with Quinn Donovan. He’s wearing an authentic Scottish kilt and I’m in a wet bed sheet. Studying the chiseled profile from beneath half-closed eyelids, he filed away little details to dream on later. The wavy mahogany-and-silver hair sparkled damply in the street lights and Ben imagined him emerging naked from a forest pool. Lord Oberon, King of the Forest. Was that hair as soft as it looked? His gaze was drawn again to the leather sporran and he swallowed hard, trying not to think about what lay underneath. He had to clench his fists under the wet jacket to keep his fingers from trembling.

 

As if sensing Ben’s eyes on him, Donovan glanced over and gave him a warm smile that made Ben’s stomach do slow somersaults. He had the strangest feeling the man knew exactly what he was thinking. Wishful thinking, of course. Donovan would probably throw him out of the car into the storm if he had even the slightest idea what his waterlogged passenger was imagining at that moment. Maybe even run him over to make sure.

 

The purr of the powerful engine, the rhythmic swish-swish of the wipers in counterpoint to the rain. Soft chamber music flowing from the in-dash CD player. The rich smell of the leather interior, mixed with the fragrant pipe tobacco he remembered from the lab. S’nice… Ben could feel the nervous tension ebbing away, leaving him drained but oddly peaceful. The cozy warmth, combined with the liquor he’d had at the party, was making him sleepy.

 

It never occurred to him that Donovan hadn’t asked for directions to his apartment.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn glanced over at his slumbering passenger. Poor lad, probably exhausted. Cold, too, I imagine, judging from how Ben seemed to huddle within himself. He turned up the heat and eased off the accelerator, telling himself it was for safety’s sake, but mostly just to savor the experience as long as possible. He had only the vaguest idea of Ben’s address, but hell, the town wasn’t that big…

 

Nevertheless, after about 30 minutes of aimless meandering in the rain, Quinn finally had to admit he had no idea where he was going. Pulling into a deserted parking lot, he considered his options. He supposed he’d have to wake Ben up and ask him, and try not to look like a complete berk in the process. Or worse… Taking a deep steadying breath, he spoke softly. “Ben?”

 

No response. Just as he’d thought, fast asleep. Shame to wake him. He hesitated, studying the somnolent form. The jacket had fallen to one side and he noticed a small cloth pouch attached to the rope belt. Perhaps…

 

Stealthily he reached for the bag. Holding his breath, he carefully worked it open, watching Ben’s face for any sign of waking, ready to apologize for the invasion of privacy, then gently pulled the imitation leather wallet free. The young man shifted slightly in the seat, but did not wake. The wet toga clung like a living thing to his thighs, clearly outlining… *everything.* Quinn swallowed hard and sternly told himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

 

Ah, yes. Here was Ben’s driver’s license – egad, what an unflattering picture – with an address only a few blocks away. Quinn laid the wallet on the console and carefully drove east.

 

Moments later, he pulled up in front of a slightly run-down apartment building. There was no canopy over the entrance, and apparently no underground parking, either. No way Ben could get inside without getting completely soaked again, and the rain showed no sign of letting up anytime soon. Quinn circled the block a couple of times, then made an executive decision and turned back toward his brownstone on the other side of town. They could wait out the storm there.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn parked the Jag in the basement/garage and regarded his still-slumbering passenger. Shame to wake him, but he’d not be very comfortable sleeping in the car, even for a little while. He reached out and gently touched Ben’s bare shoulder, not wanting to startle him. Skin’s so soft… He mentally shook himself, more than a little perturbed at the effect this young man was having on him. “Ben? Time to wake up,” he said quietly.

 

Ben’s blinked owlishly in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “Wha- where are we?”

 

“My home. Well, my garage, actually. It’s still coming down in buckets, and there was nowhere I could safely let you off, so I hope you don’t mind that I brought you back here. Once it stops, I’ll be glad to run you home, but in the meantime would you care to come inside for a cup of tea, or perhaps a nightcap? I have a rather fine brandy that would warm us up nicely.” Calm, unruffled, no indication of his inner turmoil. The thought of this beautiful, scantily clad young man in his home, just the two of them, alone…

 

Ben hesitated, then gave him an appealingly shy smile. “Um, yeah, thank you, Professor, that sounds great. I mean, if you’re sure I’m not putting you out or anything. I can just grab a cab-“

 

“Be serious, Ben,” Quinn said mock-sternly. “Can’t you hear how hard it’s raining out there? You must allow me to extend the hospitality of my home. It would be my pleasure, my honor.” He smoothly unfolded himself from the Jag, then walked around to the passenger door and extended a hand to help Ben out. Unlocking the garage door, he stepped back with a smile and gestured him inside. “Apres vous, monsieur.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben awoke to an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder and a soft voice calling his name. Blearily opening his eyes, he focused on Professor Donovan’s gravely smiling face. The warm touch on his bare skin caused an involuntary shiver. “Wha- where are we?”

 

Donovan quietly explained that he had brought Ben back to his own home to wait out the storm, and offered him tea or brandy. Still fuzzy from his impromptu nap in the car, and not wishing to appear rude, Ben shyly agreed.

 

First he offers me a ride in his Jaguar, now he’s inviting me into his home? I must be dreaming.

 

Donovan motioned him through the door and Ben stepped carefully inside, unsure of how to proceed. The older man slipped smoothly around him and turned on a light.

 

“You must be freezing, Ben. Let me get a fire going and we’ll be warm in no time,” he murmured, striding into the living room, which boasted a huge fieldstone fireplace. A large golden retriever rose from near the hearth, silky tail wagging at the sight of his master, and Quinn scratched him affectionately behind the ears as he knelt and reached for some kindling and newspaper. “This is Bernini,” he said over his shoulder to Ben. “Please make yourself at home. He’s quite well mannered.”

 

Ben hesitated in the doorway – that sofa didn’t look like it would appreciate having a wet sheet laid out on it. Not to mention those hardwood floors. Maybe if he just stood in front of the fire…

 

Donovan stood and turned from the fireplace, shaking his head in dismay. “Young man, you will catch your death of pneumonia if we don’t get you out of those wet things at once. Come with me and we’ll find you something to put on. I can put your clothes in the dryer and they’ll be ready in no time.” He strode back out of the room and toward the stairs, beckoning Ben to follow.

 

The second floor was dominated by a large master bedroom suite, with a king-sized bed and decidedly masculine furniture. Books were stacked haphazardly on the bedside tables, the dresser, in the corners – clearly a bibliophile lived here. The plush carpeting, in contrast to the hardwood floors downstairs, made Ben’s toes itch to kick off the waterlogged sandals and scuff barefoot through it. The curtains and bedspread were in soothing tones of blues and greens, the overall effect one of comfort over style.

 

Donovan moved quickly to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a heavy silk robe which he tossed casually in Ben’s direction, then rummaged in the closet for a pair of slippers. He bowed Ben into the bathroom, tactfully closing the door behind him. Ben quickly stripped off the wet toga and sandals (damn, even his underwear was drenched) and donned the robe, only a few sizes too big and smelling of the pipe tobacco he remembered from the lab and the car. He inhaled deeply, guiltily enjoying the sensation of wearing Donovan’s bathrobe, in what was obviously Donovan’s bedroom.

 

“When you’re ready, just hand me your wet things and I’ll pop them into the dryer for you,” came the urbane voice from the other side the door. Ben cracked open the door and shyly handed him the wet costume and sandals, carefully bundling the wet underwear inside the sheet and hoping his host wouldn’t notice. Donovan solemnly accepted the package and headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs,” he called over his shoulder as he started downstairs. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

 

The slippers were hopelessly too big and Ben carefully placed them at the foot of the big bed, not wanting to appear impolite by returning them to the closet. Studying the room, he couldn’t help but notice the lack of any overt feminine touches. He hadn’t seen any female toiletries in the bathroom, come to think of it, not even a toothbrush. The thought was oddly comforting. Barefoot, he luxuriated for a few minutes in the soft taupe carpet, then slowly descended the stairs.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn nodded approvingly from the large beveled glass-paneled breakfront as Ben returned to the room. Not wishing to inconvenience his guest, he had remained in his own costume, though he had laid aside the heavy tartan and loosened the ties of the shirt. The claymore and scabbard had been returned to their place of honor above the fireplace. He smiled to himself, recalling how Adele had used the family heirloom to prevail upon him to wear her choice of costume tonight. That kilt had certainly caused a stir at the party, though some of the comments had been a bit ribald for his taste. A few had even bordered on the obscene.

 

Selecting a heavy Waterford crystal decanter and two matching crystal snifters, he waved Ben to the sofa near the fire. Pouring a healthy measure into each glass, he handed him one. "There you are, sir. Your very good health." He raised his own in toast and sipped, smiling benignly at Ben's cautious sampling of the strong liquor. "The robe is satisfactory? Excellent." Then he frowned. "But you're without slippers, didn't I-"

 

"No, I'm afraid they were too big for me, sorry. I hope you don't mind, but I left them upstairs." Ben self-consciously pulled the edges of the robe a bit more snugly around himself, and Quinn politely averted his eyes.

 

"Yes, of course, I didn't think of that. I do have rather large feet." Quinn glanced down at his brogues and considered. "I could offer you a pair of socks, if you'd prefer?"

 

"No, this is fine, really. Thank you." Ben stretched his bare toes toward the warmth of the fire and cautiously sipped the brandy again. Quinn took another healthy swallow from his own glass to conceal his growing interest. What a beautiful young man, so oblivious to his appeal. Then again, there was probably any number of nubile lovelies competing for his attentions. The thought was disturbing and he put it away for later contemplation, sternly reminding himself that as host he owed his guest better manners.

 

"Of course, of course. Just as you wish." The big man relaxed into his deep leather armchair and sighed again, automatically reaching for his pipe and tobacco. Then he caught himself and gestured a May I? to which Ben quickly nodded assent. Bernini settled at his feet and resumed his interrupted nap. The rain beat comfortably on the roof and the room was snug and warm and peaceful.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben sipped the potent brandy, trying to appear at his ease, though still a bit mystified at how the evening had evolved. It was like something right out of a soap opera: he was seated on a very comfortable sofa, wearing his host's silk bathrobe -- and nothing else, he thought ruefully -- before a crackling wood fire, sipping brandy in a crystal snifter while the object of his dreams lounged casually across from him in a Scottish kilt and knee socks, looking as if he routinely welcomed young men in wet bed sheets into his living room in the middle of the night. And maybe he *did,* but Ben didn't want to think about that right now. The rain beat pleasantly outside and the dimly lit room was like an encapsulated little world all its own. He could have stayed there forever, happy to just Be In the Moment.

 

"So tell me, young Benjamin, how did you decide to come dressed as a Roman senator this evening?" Donovan asked, after a comfortable silence. "You don't appear to be of Italian extraction. Or perhaps I am mistaken?"

 

"You mean the toga?" Ben chuckled self-consciously. "No, I'm not Italian, you're right, but it was easy and it was available. I couldn't really think of anything else." He paused, then asked curiously, "Why a senator? I thought it was just a toga."

 

"Well, it does rather remind one of the fashions worn by the Roman Senate about the time of Julius Caesar, doesn't it? Somewhat reminiscent of the costumes from "Cleopatra," with Rex Harrison, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Magnificent film, though somewhat less than historically accurate." Donovan drew contentedly on his pipe. "You've seen it, of course." It wasn't a question.

 

"No, I mean, yes, I think so. On TV." He added thoughtfully, "I didn't even think about that at the time. It was just… there." Oh boy, yeah, you're making a great impression, Ben. Wonder if it's stopped raining yet? Can I slip out now before I embarrass myself even more? Where's that dryer?

 

"Ah, on TV. No comparison to seeing it on the silver screen, of course. But probably a bit before your time. No matter, even on television, it is well worth the effort. Preferably with a large bowl of popcorn and a bottle of very old wine." He chuckled engagingly and Ben couldn't help but grin in response.

 

"You're a movie aficionado, Professor?"

 

"Please, my friends call me Quinn. And yes, I *do* enjoy movies, the theatre, the arts in general. Yourself?" The blue eyes lit with enthusiasm. It was very attractive.

 

"When I can find the time. The second-run theatre downtown has, hands down, *the* best stale popcorn and flat beer anywhere around." Ben smiled self-deprecatingly and sipped the brandy again, enjoying its burn down his throat. His host was right: he was pleasantly warm now, both inside and out, as much by the ambience and the company as by the potent liquor.

 

Donovan smiled in return. "Indeed?" he asked politely. "I shall have to keep that in mind." He paused, then added, rather diffidently, "Perhaps you might keep me informed of coming attractions, and we could meet there some time? I'd enjoy having someone to critique with me; it adds so much to the experience."

 

Warmed by the brandy and the unexpected invitation, Ben responded enthusiastically. "I'd like that very much, Prof- um, Quinn. Thank you." The name suited him: he *looked* like a Quinn, especially in that linen shirt and the pleated kilt. He remembered the signature on the note from the day before: "Quinntrell J. Donovan." It sounded like something out of an Edwardian novel, a rugged Highland chieftain in a drafty stronghold overlooking a wave-tossed loch-

 

Sheesh, Ben, cut it out. You're practically drooling over the man and all he's done is ask you to go see a movie with him sometime!

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn enjoyed his pipe and brandy while contemplating the young man seated across from him. The silk robe was really very becoming, even if it was several sizes too big for him. And his underwear was in the dryer with the makeshift toga. He's sitting only a few feet away, naked but for my robe… Fortunately he was deep enough in shadow that Ben couldn't see the impact that thought was having on certain parts of his body. He could hear Adele's teasing laughter in his head.

 

He broke the silence with the first thought that came to him: "So tell me, young Benjamin, what made you decide to come dressed as a Roman senator this evening?"

 

Ben explained that the toga had been a last-minute choice, and Quinn belatedly realized that the young man probably hadn't had any intention of attending the party tonight until he had impulsively invited him the day before. And of course, had he not been at the party, Xandra wouldn't have attacked him on the dance floor and embarrassed him in front of the other guests. Quinn sighed inwardly. There would undoubtedly be fallout from his dismissal of the girl from the festivities. Well, so be it. Better on his head than on Ben's. Far better.

 

The conversation moved easily into discussions of movies past and present, then on to books, plays and music. Surprisingly, they had a good deal more in common than either would have suspected. Quinn kept Ben's glass filled, and the fire gradually died down to embers. He found himself captivated by the younger man's utter lack of pretense, his engaging manner, in fact, everything about him. It felt as if they had known each other for years. When Ben mentioned a nearby movie theatre, Quinn surprised himself by suggesting they attend a showing together. Even more surprising was Ben's flatteringly eager acceptance.

 

"Excellent. I shall look forward to it then." I shall indeed, he thought to himself, warmed by Ben's animated response. And with such an attractive companion, though he clearly needs exposure to a higher standard of living. Stale popcorn and flat beer, indeed! No, my lovely Benjamin, for you it should be prime rib and a fine old burgundy, followed by a decadent crème Brule, and how I would enjoy watching you savor every morsel.

 

~*~*~*~

 

A wooden lantern clock on the mantel chimed in a quiet moment, and Ben glanced up, startled. It was 3:00 am, and he realized suddenly it was no longer raining. "Quinn, I- this was wonderful, but I really should be going. Thank you again for the ride and the brandy and-"

 

Donovan rose quickly, nearly tripping over the dog, which scrambled out of the way with a reproachful yelp. "Ben, how thoughtless of me! Here I've been nattering on about movies and the like and you're probably exhausted. Please forgive me. Thank goodness it's the weekend; at least we don't have to get up early for work tomorrow, eh?"

 

"Actually, I *do* have to work tomorrow, uh, *today.* Dean Winters asked me to set up the new projection system in the auditorium and he needs it first thing Monday morning." Ben sighed regretfully. "It's stopped raining; I should be able to catch a bus, if you can show me the nearest stop. I'm not exactly sure where we are," he said sheepishly, remembering now that he had been fast asleep when they had arrived. Somehow he doubted this was faculty housing, even for someone with Donovan's seniority.

 

"I wouldn't hear of it. It's entirely my fault you're not snugged up in bed right now. I will, of course, drive you home. Let me just see if your clothes are dry yet." The big man strode out of the room, whistling a merry little tune that made Ben smile. The unconscious sway of the lean hips under the kilt was a thing of beauty.

 

Donovan returned a few minutes later, looking chagrined. "Ben, I *do* apologize. I put your clothes in the dryer, but that damned machine is somewhat… cantankerous at best, and it seems it didn't dry them very much at all. They're still quite moist. I could perhaps offer you something of mine…" He shrugged shamefacedly, clearly recognizing the futility of that suggestion.

 

Ben stood. "Maybe I could take a look at it for you. Least I can do, after everything you've done for me tonight."

 

"No, no, truly, I couldn't impose. Let me just see if I can dredge up something that will at least get you home, then-"

 

"No imposition, Quinn. I'd be happy to. Really." Ben smiled reassuringly, gratified for the opportunity to thank Donovan for his hospitality.

 

Quinn's face brightened in relief. "I'd be in your debt. I'm sure it's possessed by the Devil. I advise you to have an exorcist present, in the event it decides to attack." He gestured to Ben to follow him into the garage.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben chuckled at the thought of the big clothes dryer jumping off its footings and spewing bile, or snarling before a raised crucifix. It looked harmless enough, but then again, Quinn Donovan took technophobia to a whole new level. How did the man survive on his own, given his apparent inability to cope with the simplest mechanical issues? Maybe Professor Gauliere took care of all those little details. Yeah, he probably didn't spend a lot of time here. Too bad. The brownstone had a comfortable, unpretentious ambience that made Ben's small apartment seem shabby by comparison.

 

Glancing quickly at the controls, Ben checked the lint filter (clean, that's good), then rotated the knob to "Bedding" and pressed the Start button. The dryer promptly rumbled into life and Quinn flushed with embarrassment. "Thank you," he mumbled, then abruptly turned and left the room.

 

Confused, Ben slowly walked back inside and found his host leaning against the fireplace mantel, head in his hand. As he cautiously approached, the big man looked up, red-faced. "I must seem a complete berk to you, mustn't I?" He shook his head. "I honestly thought I had turned it on, Ben. Please believe me." He wouldn't meet Ben's eyes.

 

"It's all right, Quinn. Easy mistake. It could happen to anyone. I'm not offended, honest. Please," he reached out, but the older man shrank from his touch and he stepped back to give him some space. "It’s been such a great evening, don't let something like a demon-possessed dryer ruin it."

 

Quinn sighed heavily. "It was a nice evening, wasn't it? I have enjoyed your company thoroughly. I had *hoped,*" he swallowed hard, then continued quietly, "that we could look forward to going to that movie theatre you mentioned sometime soon. But I would completely understand if you ran screaming into the night right now-"

 

"Now why would I want to do a silly thing like that?" Ben laughed. "Especially since my clothes are *still* in your dryer! Need I remind you that I’m wearing *your* bathrobe right now? Do you expect me to go out in the cold wet night wearing a silk bathrobe and nothing else?" Oh crap, I did *not* just say that…

 

Quinn stared at him for a long moment, then his lips began to twitch. A moment later, he threw back his head and roared with laughter, while Ben wondered uneasily whether the neighbors would call the police. What a great laugh, he thought absently. Weird sense of humor, but a really great laugh. He impulsively decided he liked this side of Donovan: relaxed, mirthful, full of joie de vivre. Small wonder he was so popular on campus. Bet he drove the pompous Dean of Students crazy.

 

Quinn wiped tears from his eyes, still chuckling. "Oh, Ben, I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself. The absurdity of the whole situation." He chuckled again, then made a visible effort to compose himself.

 

Ben grinned, relieved. At least Donovan didn't appear fazed by Ben's unfortunate slip of the tongue about his lack of clothing. Maybe the evening wasn't a total loss after all. "Sure, Quinn, no problem. We can just wait until my clothes are dry and then I can get out of your hair, all right? And really, I'd love to see a movie with you some time. But if it's all the same to you, I'll wear something a bit warmer than a toga. They tend to crank up the AC and popcorn doesn't keep you very warm." He sounded almost flirtatious, but the big man didn't seem to mind. The warm smile was back, the blue eyes crinkling with restored good humor.

 

"Wonderful. Ben, I am sorry for laughing, how rude of me, but truly, I can only imagine what you must have thought. `Forgetting' to turn the dryer on, keeping you up all night talking about incidentals. I'm generally a better host than that." Shrugging, he waved Ben back to the sofa. Ben reluctantly declined his offer of more brandy. If he had anything more to drink, he'd be passed out on the sofa, not to mention waking up with a bitch of a hangover later. Then, to his horror, his stomach loudly rumbled.

 

Quinn promptly excused himself and returned with a tray of cheese and crackers. "Here we are. Sorry I don't have anything better to offer, but I usually go out for meals on the weekends. This should tide us over. Please, help yourself."

 

The cheese was delicious, mellow with just a hint of a bite, and Ben savored it. The brandy, on top of what he had consumed at the party, had made him rather lightheaded and it was good to get something in his belly before he made any more embarrassing faux pas.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Watching Ben enjoy the cheese and crackers, Quinn privately thanked the Lord for his guest's evident lack of offense. *Had* he simply forgotten to turn the dryer on, in some unconsciously Machiavellian attempt to keep the alluring young man close at hand? He looked marvelous in Quinn’s robe, and the inadvertent confirmation that he had nothing on underneath would fuel fantasies for weeks to come. He sat back in his oversized arm chair and enjoyed the fire-lit highlights in Ben's auburn hair, the way the paisley silk clung to him like water. What a beautiful young man…

 

"… Quinn? Professor ? Are you all right?"

 

Quinn jerked back to reality, blushing at Ben's concerned look. "Oh yes, yes, quite all right, yes, quite," he stammered. Wanker, he thought angrily to himself. "You were saying?"

 

"I just said it probably wasn't a good idea for you to be driving this late at night. I mean, you're probably tired. I can get home on my own, really."

 

"No, no, I'm fine." He blinked a couple of times, ran his hand through his hair. "I wouldn't hear of you going off by yourself, especially in that rather… provocative costume. I mean, truly, m'lad, do you honestly think a bus or a cab would pick you up at this hour? I'd never forgive myself." Quinn considered, then came to a decision. "There's clearly only one solution, Ben. You must stay here tonight and I will see you safely home in the morning."

 

Ben stared in disbelief. "I can't impose on you that way, Quinn, really, it's too much, I-"

 

"I insist. You can take the bedroom upstairs and I shall grab a bit of sleep here on the sofa. Believe me, it would hardly be the first time." Perhaps not what I would prefer, but enough damage's been done for one night, mustn't scare him off.

 

"At least let *me* take the sofa, Quinn. I mean, it's *your* home, *your* bedroom."

 

"Exactly. My home, and you are my guest. End of discussion," Quinn said firmly, mind made up. He rose and extended a hand to Ben to help him up, looming over him in the firelight.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben couldn't believe his ears. Now Donovan was inviting him to spend the night?!? Sleep in that big bed upstairs, in *Quinn's* bed? While he tried to sleep on the sofa? Impossible.

 

"At least let *me* take the sofa, Quinn. I mean, it's *your* home, *your* bedroom." Your big bed, and wouldn't I love to be in it with you right now. The thought came unbidden, but was strangely far from unpleasant. Ben imagined stroking the strong bearded jaw, then mentally shook himself. He took the proffered hand and rose, automatically reaching to pull the robe together where it threatened to gape open.

 

He missed Quinn's hungry gaze in the semi-darkness, mistook the slight trembling in the hand for fatigue and too much brandy.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben's mind spun. The brandy had gone straight to his head, and it suddenly seemed critically important that he sleep on Quinn's couch and not in his *bed.* Alone.

 

Why did it bother him to sleep in the proffered bed alone when the issue should be whether he would be sleeping in it at all? He *should* be in his own bed at home, reflecting on how he would likely never attend another Academy function again. Instead, he was following the kilted man up the stairs in his otherwise very empty house to get sheets and blankets so that said man could sleep on his own couch, thereby allowing Ben to occupy his king-sized bed.

 

Alone.

 

Quinn stopped at a door in the hallway and opened it to reveal shelves of sheets, blankets and towels. "I will never understand how one confirmed old bachelor and his dog somehow manage to accumulate so much bedding," he mused out loud. He studied the neat piles of bed linens, then bent to make his selections.

 

"Too many overnight guests?" Ben offered, half-guiltily enjoying the unimpeded view of the man's backside above strongly muscled legs. Then the implication of his flippant remark belatedly penetrated his alcohol-soaked brain. "I meant visitors… not that… umm…" Yep, no good way out of this one, Ben.

 

"I *do* have a number of colleagues who come to study at the Academy," Quinn responded distractedly, still digging in the closet. "Most prefer to avoid the expense of a hotel, so they often end up on my couch. I have a guest room, of sorts, but it’s not furnished. Mostly just storage. Should probably do something about that one day," he added, as if making a mental note to himself.

 

Oh thank God, he didn't catch it. Maybe I'm not as drunk as I thought, Ben thought, relieved. Let's try not to accuse him of being a whore anymore tonight, shall we?

 

"Here we are, these should do the trick." Quinn turned to offer Ben a large bundle. "I'll just grab a couple of pillows, shall I?"

 

"Good idea. Lead the way," Ben answered, grappling with sheets, pillowcases and a bulky quilted comforter. Quinn grabbed up two large pillows, then deftly maneuvered around Ben and headed back down the stairs.

 

Ben slowly followed, struggling to see over the pile of bedding. Unfortunately, the inordinately long robe proved to be somewhat of a handicap, significantly hampering his progress. He had almost reached the bottom when the robe abruptly separated and tangled under his feet. He desperately tried to jerk the silky material out of the way, but overbalanced. Gravity took over as his arms flailed and he tried to grab for the banister to catch himself. The bed linens were sacrificed as he fell, and he felt the silk robe tear under his feet.

 

"*Shiiiiiit!*"

 

~*~*~*~

 

"*Shiiiiiit!*"

 

Quinn heard the cry, turned and saw the look of sheer panic as Ben began to fall amidst a cloud of sheets, blankets and comforter. Dropping the pillows, his arms shot out in an automatic response and caught the younger man, who had twisted while trying to free himself of the oversized fluttering silk robe. They froze in a dancers' tableau, Quinn's arms protectively encircling Ben to prevent his hitting the floor and injuring himself. As it was, they both nearly went tumbling before Quinn managed to painfully brace himself against the freestanding bachelor’s chest at the foot of the stairs and steady them on their feet.

 

Wide green eyes looked up at him with surprise, then apprehension and… fear? Or… something else?

 

Blaming the alcohol, pumped up adrenaline, the late hour and the combined body heat, Quinn surrendered, leaning in to capture the soft lips with his own. The taste of brandy lingered, with a hint of something sweeter. An eternity passed before he dazedly realized Ben had not pulled away, and was in fact, hungrily kissing him *back.* His brain also fuzzily processed that the silk robe had fallen open, revealing a leanly muscled and quite nude form underneath. And the beginnings of an impressive erection, mirroring his own beneath the heavy woolen kilt.

 

"Are you all right?" Quinn asked huskily, staring down into those amazing eyes and unconsciously pulling Ben closer. "Did you hurt yourself?" He could hardly speak around the large lump in his throat. Like his voice, his arms shook with the need to enfold, to claim, to possess.

 

Ben nodded. "I'm… I'm ok," he said breathlessly. "But I think I tore your robe. I'll pay for it. I… I guess I tripped." His face was flushed, but he didn't look away or try to disentangle himself from Quinn's arms.

 

Quinn struggled to maintain his composure. "A minor point. But… if I may be so bold, a most… fortuitous circumstance. Ben-"

 

Ben put a hand to Quinn's mouth. "Shhh. Don't say anything. I'm having this incredible drunken dream and I don't want anything to wake me up." His eyes drifted closed as Quinn kissed his fingertips, then drew them gently into his mouth and sucked on them, one by one. A soft moan and he swayed slightly, causing Quinn to pull him more tighty into his arms. He gave a token resistance, then moved fully into the warm hug, reaching up to meet Quinn's lips again with his own, wrapping his arms tightly about the corded neck. Mouths devoured each other, growing more confident, exploring, mapping, laying claim.

 

Locked now in a heated embrace, they backed slowly into the living room, somehow managing to avoid tripping over the scattered bedclothes, the robe billowing behind Ben like the wake of a ship. Quinn nuzzled the smaller man's jaw line and neck, still trying to leave Ben the choice to move away if he wished. Instead, Ben promptly went to work on removing the only real garment still between them.

 

If getting the kilt on before had been an ordeal, removing it proved far more entertaining. "How many pins and buckles does one damn skirt need?" Ben grumbled, voice slurred with brandy and desire, fumbling with the unfamiliar clothes.

 

Quinn rumbled reprovingly deep in his chest. "Young man, I will thank you to remember that this is a proper Scottish kilt, and not a `skirt.' But as you are untrained in the art of taking the damned thing off, permit me to demonstrate. Pay close attention now; there may be a test later," he added, in his best "professorial" tones, prompting a delighted laugh from Ben.

 

Stealing another kiss, Quinn took Ben by the shoulders and pushed him back until he landed with a thump on the couch. The robe fell away, displaying the leanly muscled torso and smooth chest. The cinnamon-colored nipples were rigid with desire, while the erection curved upwards to his belly and wept pearlescent fluid. Quinn's mouth went dry at the sight and he wasted little time in pressing his advantage.

 

Striking a casual pose, he slipped a finger between the uppermost buckle and the heavy woolen kilt, expecting it to behave in the manner of any civilized belt. However, the awkward location of the buckles and the uneven weight distribution combined to thwart his best efforts. He swore expressively as he continued to struggle with the intractable garment. "*Bollocks!* Whoever designed this damnable thing ought to be horsewhipped!"

 

Helpless giggles emanated from the couch. Quinn's frustrated glare met Ben's smoldering gaze, now laced with barely bridled amusement. "Small wonder the Scots lost every battle they ever fought with the English!" Quinn muttered disgustedly. "The enemy would be upon them before they ever got themselves dressed! Damn it, Ben, stop laughing, it's not funny!"

 

Ben only chortled harder, helplessly gesturing for Quinn to continue, even as he began stroking his weeping penis. The sight of the young man openly pleasuring himself while wearing Quinn's robe was inspiring. Throwing caution to the winds, Quinn ripped the buckles loose from the heavy plaid wool and shoved the kilt down, kicking it away. So he'd have to pay for the damned costume: small price to pay for what he hoped was about to happen.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The kilt fell to the floor with a soft thud, revealing a pair of white cotton boxers above the woolen knee socks. Ben abruptly stopped laughing and simply stared, transfixed. The vision was somehow more erotic than if Quinn had been stark naked. This wasn't a dream… This was really happening…

 

Quinn's hands now went to the loose linen shirt, which he began to slowly pull over his head. "*Wait!*" Ben cried. Quinn froze, staring down at him in stunned disbelief. "I mean, I- I *like* it," Ben said hurriedly, blushing again. "It makes you look… dashing, noble. Don't stop, just… go slow, ok?" His hand resumed stroking his hard cock, green eyes sultry beneath heavy lids.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Startled, Quinn froze in the act of removing his shirt. Ben wanted him to stop? *Now?!?!* No, this wasn't happening. If this was a dream, brought on by too much alcohol and Ben's intoxicating presence, then surely he wouldn't be yelling stop? No, the lad assured him hastily, he just wanted to prolong the moment. Bemused by Ben's awkward attempt at flattery, Quinn glanced down at himself: shirt half off, ruined kilt crumpled on the floor at his feet, erection almost painfully tenting his boxers. Knee socks (with flashes, don't let's forget the damned flashes!) and lace-up brogues. Meanwhile the object of his desire reclined on his couch, naked but for Quinn's silk robe and seemingly about to expire from unrequited lust. The sight of that slim hand moving up and down over the turgid flesh was quite possibly the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He had to be a part of it.

 

"This will never do," he said sternly, releasing the shirt and frowning down at Ben.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben sat up, confused, hand dropping from his weeping penis. What had he done? What had he said? Had he gone too far, ruined everything? Or was Quinn "coming to his senses," suddenly having second thoughts? Was he going to call the police and have him thrown out?

 

Quinn slowly approached the couch, like a mountain lion stalking his prey. "You are a guest in my house," he growled. Kneeling between Ben's bare legs, he took the erect member in one large hand. "Allow me."

 

Stunned, Ben could only nod a mute acquiescence. The sight of Professor Quinn Donovan half-naked and kneeling between his legs, fondling and stroking his erection was almost more than he could bear. He tried desperately to tamp down his raging desire, wanting to draw out the moment as long as possible. Quinn's face reflected his concentration on the task (quite literally) at hand. Ben desperately wanted to reach out, to touch any part of the older man he could reach, but found himself unable to do more than watch and try to remember to breathe. The big hands engulfed his member, manipulating the sensitive ball sac behind. The movements were a bit awkward at first, but quickly found a rhythm that made the blood pound in Ben's ears.

 

All too soon, Ben felt the climax rushing through him and tried to warn Quinn, but it was too late. Cum shot from his cock, covering Quinn's hands and lightly spattering the bearded face mere inches away. It seemed to go on forever, and he distantly felt himself being milked to full completion, before being gently released. Then he felt a soft cloth wiping him clean before silently retreating. He was too spent to even open his eyes.

 

Moments later, a soft groan, followed by a rustling near his feet caused him to stir. "… Quinn…?"

 

"Here, Ben," came the gruff voice from near the hearth. "Feeling better, lad?"

 

"Mm hmm," Ben said dreamily. "*Much* better." He sat up slowly, reflexively drawing the robe about himself, then laughed self-deprecatingly and let it fall back open. After all, what had he to hide at this point? "That was… incredible," he said softly. "Thank you." He squinted, trying to read Quinn's expression in the dim light, but the big man was backlit by the fireplace. The white shirt seemed to glow in the soft light.

 

"You are entirely welcome, sir," Quinn said solemnly, with a half bow. Even half-naked, he cut an impressive figure – leonine, regal, wrapped in dignity. Ben imagined him on the cover of one of those "heaving bosom" romantic novels his mother enjoyed. Except there'd be no half-undressed woman swooning in his arms…

 

Rising languidly from the couch, Ben pressed himself up against the larger man, trapping the hard cock between them through the thin boxers. His own member twitched happily in response and he felt, more than heard Quinn's groan deep in his chest. One long arm curled about his waist, while the other gripped the wooden mantel. They stood without moving for a moment or two, merely enjoying the intimate contact. Then Ben pushed up the linen shirt and began feathering warm kisses along Quinn's lightly furred chest, before sinking to his knees on the deep stone hearth. A sharp intake of breath overhead emboldened him. Gripping the lean hips, he nuzzled the flat belly, nose tickled by the thin line of dark hair that descended below the waistband of the underclothes. The musky scent of their mutual arousal mingled with the fragrant pipe tobacco on the nearby table. He knew he'd always associate that smell with Quinn now.

 

Sliding his hand up a muscular thigh, he slowly pulled the boxers down, allowing Quinn to step free. The desire on the big man’s face in the firelight rekindled his own lust. Fingers brushed against soft pubic hairs, then found the rock-hard column of flesh and Quinn groaned again, as if in pain. Holy shit… Quinn's cock was enormous. Ben choked back a slightly nervous chuckle, imagining that pole of muscle buried within his own body.

 

"What is it?" Harsh breathing, as a hand came to rest on the top of his head. A benediction, a plea.

 

Ben leaned back and smiled. "Just… admiring the scenery."

 

The hand roughly stroked his hair, then cupped the back of his head. "Don't stop." A breathy sigh. "*Please.*"

 

"Yes, Professor," Ben said demurely, batting his eyelashes. "Whatever you say, Professor."

 

Quinn snorted derisively. "Somehow I think `Professor Donovan' has vacated the premises, *Mr.* Kensington. `Professor Donovan' doesn't engage in this sort of thing, as a general rule."

 

"Sorry," Ben said, abashed.

 

Quinn shook his head. "Don't apologize. Just keep going."

 

Ben obediently returned his attention to the solid column of flesh, surrounded by a thick nest of reddish curls that glinted invitingly in the firelight. The equally impressive balls hung below and Ben reached out to fondle them, causing Quinn's cock to jerk spasmodically. Ben's own throbbed enthusiastically in response. Ben silently wished for three hands, that he might ease his own discomfort while continuing the very pleasant task of driving Quinn Donovan mad.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Waiting for the younger man to recover himself, Quinn lost himself in frank appreciation of the picture of total debauchery before him: an all-but-naked, utterly sated Ben sprawled on his couch, the dying fire casting a warm glow across the pale skin framed within the silk robe. If only he could paint, or draw, somehow capture this moment for all posterity…

 

Lost in the moment, he almost forgot his own neglected arousal, until his bad knee demanded relief from the hard floor. Groaning softly, he hauled himself to his feet, limping gingerly to the fireplace and clutching the wooden mantel for support. Ben stirred.

 

“… Quinn…?” Drowsy, replete, endearing in its vulnerability.

 

“Here, Ben.” He hastily stuffed the damp handkerchief into a Lenox vase on the mantel, a gift from Adele the Christmas before. She’d be positively thrilled, if she knew, the vixen. “Feeling better, lad?”

 

“Mm hmm, *much* better.” The naked form was beautiful in the firelight as he sat up and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “That was… incredible. Thank you.”

 

“You are entirely welcome, sir,” Quinn said, with quiet irony. He watched intently as Ben slowly rose and moved to where he stood leaning against the mantel, slipping into his embrace as if he belonged there. Quinn sighed and drew him close, feeling an odd combination of tranquility and excitement at the intimate contact. Ben fit perfectly in his arms, as if he had been sculpted by a master to Quinn’s specifications, Galatea to Quinn’s Pygmalion. The idea was very appealing.

 

A moment later, passion abruptly overrode tranquility as Ben began to move against him, kissing his chest and torso, rubbing sensually against him like a cat, imprinting him with his scent. Marking him as his own. It was maddening. It was wonderful. He ached for it to stop. He wanted it to go on forever.

 

He felt Ben pulling down the boxers and his cock purred in rapt anticipation as he carefully stepped free of the garment. His entire body pulsed with the need for release. Pleasuring Ben earlier had certainly stimulated him, but he had been more focused at the time on the younger man’s needs than his own. Now it was delicious torment to feel those talented hands on his own heated flesh, to watch that beautiful mouth slowly taking him in. The white-knuckled grip on the mantel mutely testified to the raging battle inside. His cock begged him to throw the young man to the floor and bury himself in him. Never before had he experienced this white-hot, primal desire to stake a claim, to dominate, to utterly possess another human being. Not even with Adele, with whom he had shared years of casual intimacy. As a scientist, he recognized it on a clinical level, of course, but to experience it first hand was a revelation in and of itself. Perhaps he’d write a paper on-

 

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us… The feel of those soft lips and tongue on his burning cock was blissful torture. He couldn’t hold back a throaty groan, or the involuntary thrust forward into that welcoming mouth. He felt Ben’s hands kneading his buttocks and fought to hold himself upright. If he let go of the mantel, he knew he’d fall right on top of his beautiful young lover. He only hoped he could survive whatever happened next.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Inexperienced as Ben was in such matters, he could tell Quinn was close to the point of no return and enthusiastically redoubled his efforts, using his hands and mouth to drive him over the edge. The power, the control he quite literally held over this magnificent man was even more intoxicating than the alcohol he had drunk earlier. The big cock throbbed in his mouth, while the balls drew up tightly underneath. Suddenly with a roar Quinn climaxed and Ben nearly choked on the hot cum that shot down his throat. He tried to steady the now violently trembling hips, but without warning Quinn abruptly collapsed, leaving them both sprawled gracelessly on the floor. Quinn let out a couple of ragged gasps, then his head dropped back to the stone hearth and he lay still, breathing hard.

 

Ben slowly raised himself up, alarmed by Quinn’s flushed face and harsh breathing. How would he explain Quinn having a heart attack and expiring half-naked in the middle of his own living room? They were perilously close to the fire, too. Had he hit his head on the stone hearth? Ben crawled up alongside the prostrate man and hesitantly touched his shoulder. “Quinn… you ok?”

 

A weak chuckle, then, “Quite… ‘ok,’ thank you… very much, Benjamin. Just… give me… a moment.” Blue eyes flickered for a moment in the firelight, then with a gusty sigh Quinn raised an arm and unsteadily drew Ben down to him. “Come here,” he murmured softly, and raised his head to give Ben a lingering kiss. “Are *you* all right, lad?”

 

“Quite ‘all right,’ thanks,” Ben reassured him, smiling in relief. “But did you hurt yourself? Should I call a doctor?”

 

The incongruity of the question hit them simultaneously, and both men laughed for a moment. Then Quinn sat up, bringing Ben with him, and somberly regarded their situation. With the utmost gravity and decorum, he spoke. “Upon reflection, Mr. Kensington, I recommend we remove ourselves to somewhere more suitable. Do you not agree?” He might have been discussing his department’s budgetary concerns with the Dean, if not for the crinkling around the deep blue eyes.

 

Ben dutifully considered. “On balance, I believe I must concur, Professor,” he said, in an equally solemn tone. “After all, while a floor is known to have therapeutic benefits for those with bad backs, I personally favor the feel of a mattress. Especially if there are to be any more… fireworks.” He paused, then added, with an impish grin, “And I *do* hope there will be.”

 

Quinn nodded approvingly. “Quite so. Well-reasoned and well stated. Very well indeed.” He clambered to his feet, then hauled Ben up as well. Amazing recuperative powers this man had, Ben thought idly. Not to mention that remarkable cock, now lying contentedly against a naked thigh, only partially hidden by the loose linen shirt. The thought of that same cock buried deep inside himself made him shudder involuntarily, and Quinn concernedly drew him against his side, gently rubbing his shoulders and back. “You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Small wonder, the fire’s nearly out and it’s grown rather chilly in here. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”

 

Ben leaned into the strong embrace, soaking up the warmth like a sponge. He felt desired, even cherished. Quinn Donovan was everything he could wish for in a lover, and more.

 

Please don’t let this be a dream, he begged silently, as they slowly ascended the stairs, arm in arm.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn could scarcely wrap his mind around the evening’s events. Against his better judgment, he had reluctantly agreed to attend the party in Adele’s choice of costume, then had spontaneously invited Ben to attend as well. Xandra Criton, one of his own seniors, had singled the lad out for abuse for some reason, and he had leapt to Ben’s defense without a second thought. Thinking to make up for the fracas earlier, he had offered Ben a ride home, hoping for the pleasure of his company for a little while, and perhaps an opportunity to arrange for a later get-together. Amazingly, they had ended up making love downstairs, and now the beautiful young man was lying naked in his bed, green eyes wide as he shyly beckoned for Quinn to join him. The soft glow from the bedside table lamp gave the room an intimate feel. He slowly approached the bed, gazing down into those dazzling eyes, memorizing every feature, every nuance of expression.

 

“What is it?” Ben asked softly, reaching out to touch his chest, still clothed in the loose linen shirt. Quinn reached up and clasped the hand in his own, then brought it to his lips, smiling.

 

“Just… admiring the scenery, Ben,” he said, deliberately calling to mind Ben’s same words to him downstairs and chuckling at the blush that sprang to Ben’s cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed, lad. You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Artists would fight over you.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” Ben mumbled pleasedly. “But I- I like that you think so. I… I want to be… beautiful… for you.” He blushed again, but didn’t look away. The green eyes shone in the dim lamplight.

 

Quinn ran a hand down Ben’s arm, then gently over his ribcage and down along the tapering waist. He could feel the lad trembling under his touch, and was sharply reminded of Ben’s reaction in the lab the day before when Quinn had touched his injured cheek. Surely this wasn’t a new experience for him? Yet there was something almost… innocent… about the lad that made Quinn wonder, all the same. He felt again that odd urge to shelter, to protect, to safeguard. Even from himself, if it came right down to it.

 

Leaning down, he brushed his lips across a taut nipple, heard the blissful sigh even as Ben arched into the embrace. Emboldened, he teased the hard peak, laving it with his tongue, scratching gently with his moustache, while his fingers played a counterpoint with the other. Ben squirmed under the gentle assault and Quinn felt fingers sliding into his hair. Briefly raising his head, Quinn watched the green eyes flutter closed, even as the sculpted lips opened in another breathy sigh. It was a heady sight.

 

He slowly moved over the smooth torso, licking, nipping, caressing, seeking out erogenous zones, even a couple of places that elicited weak chuckles and involuntary protests. Ah, so Ben was ticklish. Something to file away for the future.

 

Absorbed in the pleasurable mapping of his new lover’s body, Quinn stretched out full-length beside Ben, breathing in his unique scent, running his hands along the lean legs, the velvety soft skin, the clean chest with its irresistible red-brown nipples, the strong square jaw with its rough stubble. He felt Ben’s penis lazily nudging against him, like an animal begging to be petted. Very different from a woman’s soft curves, but very exciting in its own way. Raising up on one elbow, he leaned down to taste the soft lips again.

 

Ben’s mouth fell open at that same moment, emitting a soft snore. One hand curled trustingly about Quinn’s forearm, while the other arm lay quiescent on the pillow. The naked form sprawled across the sheets in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. He was dead to the world.

 

Poor lad, Quinn thought tenderly, stroking the soft hair. We’ve had quite a night tonight, haven’t we? Small wonder you’re knackered. He supposed he should be offended that his lovemaking had put Ben to sleep, but somehow it only endeared the lad to him even more. Besides, while the thought of joining intimately with Ben was most desirable in theory, he secretly doubted he was up to it at the moment. No matter. They had plenty of time.

 

Divesting himself of the remains of the costume (which would definitely *not* be returned to the shop, cost be damned) he slid in beside the slumbering Ben, drawing the covers up over them both. Turning off the light, he gathered the smaller body in his arms, nuzzling into the soft hair. Ben murmured unintelligibly and shifted comfortably in Quinn’s embrace, as they both sank into a deep sleep.

 

~end~


End file.
